


Echoes

by BlackDeviouseRose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Foreknowledge, Gen, I'll think of more later orz, Knowing the Future, Mental Instability, Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Past Character Death, Reincarnation, Self-Insert, also I really hate tagging, and features an obviously messed up person, but not really?, i honestly don't know, it's definitely different from the other stories I've written, somewhat dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 21:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6442123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackDeviouseRose/pseuds/BlackDeviouseRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What use is knowledge of the future when she can't bring herself to care? She owed this world nothing - this story would continue without her. </p><p>Death took a chance, gambled on the wrong soul, and now she has to pay for it. No one ever said the Wizarding World would be all fun and games, especially not with a Dark Lord's imminent revival, a Headmasters penchant for manipulation, and a Boy-Who-Will-Die's stubborn tenacity. Not that it will matter soon, anyway.</p><p>Semi-Realistic, Somewhat Dark SI/OC (more OC than SI).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CAN SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME WITH THE SUMMARY BECAUSE I DO NOT LIKE IT AT ALL !!!  
> I BEG OF YOU.  
> HALP.

Victoria Dodger was a strange thing; all bright hair and dark eyes, small body pulled tight into itself, almost as if to hide from the world and its inhabitants. One would be hard-pressed to notice her, so small and quiet was she, that it would be no leap of imagination to assume that she was a ghost or a spirit. Perhaps, if one were to look close enough, they would notice the knowing gleam in her eyes, the weariness set in her fragile bones, and the way she would look into space- as if seeing something that was no longer there. Such a strange child, one would think with a shiver, and would move on with their life and think on it, on _her,_ no more.

Sometimes, in the darkness of the night and press of the shadows, neighbors would whisper to each other; harsh words on sharp tongues, malicious eyes and soulless hearts, gossiping of things not theirs to tell. Humans are such fickle things, deriving pleasure at the torture and misery of others, and it would only make sense that they would pick up on the weakness of each other, would notice how a child's mother would look on in fear rather than fondness at something that would -should- be considered a treasure in her eyes. It would only make sense that they would notice this and act in what is their nature – with destruction. With fear.

Victoria Dodger owed this world nothing. Not her happiness, not her grief, not her family, not her love, and most certainly not her life. She owed a world not her own not-a-thing, not when it had so unjustly and selfishly thrust her into its midst and _expected_ of her. How could she look into her mothers' eyes and not see another's? How could she stare into the folds of a candy shop, thick with the scent of chocolate and taffy, and not think of Sister? Or listen to the joyful laughing of children playing hopscotch, of teasing one another soulfully, and not hear Brother?

How could she endure the whispered fear of her own flesh and blood, see the sadistic intent in a stranger's eyes, and be _grateful?_ Perhaps, in another life, she would be happy – thankful, even – at what this world offered to her, perhaps she would look at this _chance_ with a light heart, would try to make the most of it. However, another life this is not, and so all she could see in the life around her were things long dead, long gone. She did not ask of this, did not _want_ this, and all the emotion she could muster was muffled rage and grief.

What use is knowledge of the future when so much of it has already passed?

\- She owed this world nothing.

She is an adult. Responsibility, expectations, work, marriage, children, politics, bills – this is what it means to be an adult. And then-

She is a child. Chores, school, homework, friends, parents, siblings, games, candy, naivety – is this what it means to be a child?

She doesn't know. She is an adult masquerading a child's body.

She destroys the letter, when it comes. Teared it and burned it, scattered the ashes and pretended it never existed in the first place, green ink on thick parchment disappearing without a trace. She knows it won't work. She still tries.

Her mother is overjoyed when she finds one she didn't have enough time to decimate. Doesn't even question it, so desperate to be rid of a daughter with eyes that speak of death and tongue that won't speak at all. She doesn't blame her. This woman is not her mother, just as she is not her daughter. They both have come to that understanding long ago.

Watching her 'mother' pack her trunk with almost disturbing glee she takes the time to wonder if this will be the last time she'll see the woman. Wonders how far she'll go to get away, if she'll skip town or even change her name and identity. She finds it amusing. She isn't hurt in the least.

\- She owed this world nothing.

It is 1994 and she is a child of 1999, a child of the internet, of computers, and iPhones, and tablets, and flat screens, and technology, and _advancement._ It is 1994 and the story's already begun.

What use is knowledge of the future if she isn't given any time to plan?

She is preparing for war and no one even knows it.

Every child knows the stories, of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, of the Chamber of Secrets, the Prisoner of Azkaban, the Goblet of Fire, the Order of the Phoenix, the Half-Blood Prince, and the Deathly Hallows. Stories for bedtime, of imagination and _magic._ She believed in magic too, once upon a life, and even with the absolute proof, of the knowledge, she can't bring herself to care. She'd give anything for her perfectly boring life from before. Anything.

There is war coming, death and destruction, and she is so very tired. Isn't dying once enough? So many books, devoured, one after another and not out of a love for reading, but out of desperation for survival. This world could rot for all she cared, she wasn't eager to die again. Everything would be fine without her interference.

September 1st is fast approaching and she is given her very first glimpse of the magical community. Diagon Alley is everything and nothing like she expected it to be. So wonderful, and magical, and cheerful, and beautiful – but all she can see is what it will become. The bodies that will litter the ground, the houses that will be destroyed, and the Death Eaters that will prowl the streets. She has not lived to see this before, yet somehow she feels as though this is her thousandth time visiting this street.

She tries to leave as soon as possible.

\- She owed this world nothing.

Her mother buys her a cat, the first gift she's ever _truly_ received, and there is something in her eyes – pity, and sadness, and madness, and _glee_ – and she knows. Her mother will not be there to pick her up on the last day of school. She says nothing. Smiles. Moves on.

She loves the cat preciously. The cat has her sister's eyes. She names it Sasha.

For the first time, it feels like home.

What use is knowledge of the future if she doesn't even care?

\- She owed this world nothing.

This story would continue without her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I originally posted this on FF about 3 months ago and wasn't really going to put it here, but I figured...why not?
> 
> I know the first chapter is kind of short, but in the beginning I wasn't really sure if I wanted to continue this. I had just kind of roughly written it on a coffee induced 3 am high, but it got a really, REALLY surprising amount of feedback on FF that made me just kind of want to...continue it.
> 
> (I'm probably just going to end up deleting it from here anyway lmao, this site geared more toward one-shot/romance stories than multiple chapter plot-heavy stories tbh)
> 
> With that said! I don't really have much of a 'plan' for this story (nor do I for any of my stories, I mean, come on, let's be real) and am just kind of winging it. Which also means that updates are going to be very sporadic with no kind of set intervals whatsoever. I might update several times a day. I might update once every few months. Who knows, I sure don't. (Plus I don't like writing or working on something if my heart isn't in it, it just makes the experience all around bad for both of us.)
> 
> And, once again, PLEASE HELP ME WITH THE SUMMARY PLEASE AND THANK YOU!!


	2. House

Victoria Dodger has always been a difficult child.

' _Don't be afraid to reach out for help, to close friends and family, or even a therapist,'_ the book tells her, _'you are not alone, and although you may feel loss and sadness, that is completely normal and even expected. The death of someone close to you can be a traumatizing and horrific event.'_

Speak with family, seek help from a therapist, find a hobby, don't dwell on the past, try to look ahead. The book prattles on and on about such things, on how to get through the pain of losing a loved one, on how to _move on._

It doesn't tell her what to do when she's the one dead.

Her mother dropped her off in front of the station and drove away as fast as laws would allow, not a glance back, and she doesn't hate her for it. She knows the way, seen the movies, read the books, and silently says goodbye to the woman who unwillingly raised and fed her for the past 11 years. Sasha purrs against her chest, midnight fur and sapphire eyes etched into her soul, and she feels at peace. Wand clutched in her sleeve – 10", Oak, Dragon Heartstring; perfect for casting hexes, protection, wisdom, endurance, honey, and cocoa, loud cheerful laughing, blue eyes, a loving heart, and she's the one who's gone – she trails after the wizards and witches she can pick out of the crowd. Watches them run toward the brick wall dividing the magical world from the normal one. Watches the muggles eyes slide right by the portal with fascination, how they don't notice the disappearance of people wearing such strange garb. She doesn't run toward the wall, doesn't hesitate – there is not a shred of doubt that this is real, that she will walk through it like water, and she is suddenly surrounded by witches and wizards, by hooting owls and barking dogs, and her breath is taken away.

Just like in Diagon Alley, she sees the destruction, the death, sees Harry Potter and Dumbledore – making a decision, to live or to die, it was all for the Greater Good – smells the rot and decay, listens to the screams, and suddenly she isn't. Children, cheerful, saying goodbye to loving parents, mother doting on their young, fathers proud and beaming, and she can't help but resent them all. She had that once. She doesn't want to be _here._

\- What does it mean to mourn your own death?

She finds an empty compartment easily, slips by the other students with ease, and no one notices her pass by. She avoids the bright redheaded family of nine, casts her eyes away from dark hair and emerald eyes, and prays silently to make it through this one year. Next year will be different, she tells herself, she won't need to come back. She can be free.

She is an outsider here, a girl of a different world, of a different time, with no one the wiser. A family, a life, lost forever and she alone holds the memories of it.

If past experiences define who one is, what does that make her? A person that shouldn't exist, a body snatcher, with memories of a world so unlike this one. Young, so much ahead of her some would say, old – having already lived, having already died, would say others; oh if they knew – her past having already changed who she is, was, and there is nothing there. Her head hurts, a lifetime of memories crammed in with another's, and she isn't sure how long she can survive like this. Alive she may not want to be, but alive she is nonetheless. She mustn't die – not again.

In the beginning she had been scared, desperate. Perhaps, she would mutter late into the night, this is all a dream. Fake, an illusion, and she is truly home with her brother and sister and mother and father and they are waiting patiently for her to wake up. That would make sense, she had said desperately into the silence, because surely heaven exists and if she had died then she _would be there, she was a good person she doesn't deserve-_

And then she had seen him. Dark hair, bright eyes, scrawny body, a lightning scar marring his face and she _knew._ She knew who he was, who she was, where she was, _what_ she was.

She was dead, her old life gone, and now she unwillingly lived. Soon she would be dead again if she wasn't careful because in a few short years war would take hold of the world and only the strongest would survive. Only the most desperate. And now here she was, cat sleeping warmly on her lap, wand held tight in a small fist – cherries and hopscotch, taffy and hide-and-seek, sister and brother – an empty compartment echoing her lonesomeness.

The hours pass like this, reading a book that holds no answers, cat purring lazily and flicking her tail back and forth, the silence all encompassing. She leans forward and whispers secrets into Sasha's ear, her favorite color, her _real_ name, tells her about the candy shop down the street that she'd steal caramel from, how she was bullied and her brother was expelled from school for beating the snot out of every last one of them. She tells her about being a sister and a daughter, the connection only _twins_ have, and anything that comes to mind until finally it is time to change robes. Sasha only purrs at her, and she knows she can trust this small animal to keep her secrets forever. Unease drifting away slowly, she leaves the compartment.

She listens to the chatter and murmurs of the children around her, so oblivious and innocent, and tries not to feel disgusted. The world is dreary today, dark skies reflecting her mood, rain thundering upon their small bodies. The world is mocking her, she thinks, something that most children would think of as a magical evening – their first glimpse of Hogwarts – reduced to thunder and lightning, the cold lake pounding against the sides of her rowboat. Hagrid is large and intimidating, beady eyes set on a large face, and she tries not to feel too nervous. She wonders, briefly, what her sister would think of her now. She always did love those stories.

Hogwarts was beautiful, large and proud against the back of the mountain – it will crumble in a few short years, fiendfyre and death coming to claim anyone who strays too close – and despite the torrent of rain and wind she hears the awed whispers of the children around her. Something like longing wells up in her chest. Gazing up at the large castle, she is startled when she hears a loud splash and the panicked shouts of the students around her, and she peers over the fine grain of the wood beneath her to watch in something like amazement as a long tentacle pushes a small body into her boat.

The body splutters and looks up at her with mousy brown hair and browner eyes.

' _Dennis Creevey'_ her mind offers, and she scowls at the boy. He smiles widely at her and begins chattering away a mile a minute.

She ignores him the rest of the trip, which is only too short, and before she knows it they're being ushered into a room by Minerva McGonagall – being told about the ceremony, the houses, the hat, and then it's time for the sorting to begin. It all feels so rushed.

The great hall is beautiful, candles floating lazily through the air, students talking impatiently, hungrily, and Dennis begins happily waving at his brother, but the sight of it makes her nauseous. Dumbledore sits high on his chair, eyes twinkling merrily – a man who will do anything for what he perceives is right, will raise a child for slaughter without a hint of regret, after all his hands are clean – while Snape scowled angrily next to him - a man that could steal a glimpse into her own mind, _undue_ her as easily as breathing. Both of them will die, she thinks. She can't find it in herself to care.

She never claimed to be kind.

o.O.o

Slowly, steadily, the children are called up one by one to take their seat on the stool. She watches each child be called to a different house; those condemned to Slytherin walking towards a house will destroy them if they're not careful, the Ravenclaws silently making their way towards an even quieter house knowing looks on their faces as if the outcome was obvious since the beginning, the Hufflepuffs smiling happily and gladly making their way towards the table of cheering students, and the Gryffindor's proudly and confidently sitting among their roaring friends. She watches them go, watches them be labeled and sorted and judged until finally it is her turn. She walks towards the stool, towards the hat, towards her future. A woman in a girl's body.

She wonders if Dumbledore already knows. If he's looked into her mind and seen that she is not a child, that she is not Victoria Dodger – that Victoria Dodger does not exist, has never existed – and that she is merely mimicking those around her. Parroting what a child would say and do because she doesn't know. Wonders what he could, would, do if he knew. She feels terrified.

Sitting gingerly and letting the hat cover her eyes she takes a deep breath. Exhales. She must survive.

'Oh' says the hat, surprise, and amazement, and _wonder_ in its voice. 'You're not quite what you seem are you?'

A bitter smile briefly crosses her lips, so brief one would wonder if it was ever truly there, and says nothing.

'I see,' it says after a moment, and she could feel it rifling through her head, 'such a happy family. Very close, especially in comparison to what you have now.'

Tense and angry she holds the bottom of the stool so tight her knuckles turn white, her fingers crack, and mutters begin to waft around the room.

'Those are not yours to look through!' she hisses at it, furious, and enraged, and sad that it would dare look through what's _hers._ Tears prick her eyes and she curses this body, curses its youngness and wishes for what is no longer there.

'I won't tell anyone' it says solemnly, 'a sorting is a private affair – even with memories such as these.'

'Just get this over with' she tells it impatiently, not relieved in the slightest. She just wants to find a secret nook she could curl up in, to stroke Sasha's soft fur and pretend that she doesn't exist.

'You need to be careful,' the hat says suddenly, a long moment of silence passing between them, 'the path on which you are heading down will be your undoing. This is not who you are.'

'What do you know?' she spits at it, tired and angry and lonely.

It chuckles sadly at her, 'my dear,' it says silently, 'there is no one in this world who knows you better than I.'

She tries not to laugh hysterically because it's true. The only thing that could come close to understanding her is a _hat,_ and that's only because it stole a look through her mind.

'At first glance,' it says, 'it seems you would do well in Slytherin- excel even…'

'However?' she asks tiredly.

'I believe Slytherin would destroy you,' it says bluntly, 'destroy whatever potential you have-'

'Potential?'

'-and set you further on this path you are so keen to take.'

'What's so wrong with that?' she asks crossly, crouching further into her seat, but it ignores her, muttering to itself, tiny words and whispers she cannot comprehend.

'You have qualities and traits of each house; you would fit in well no matter where I put you.' It said at last, something odd in its tone.

'However, there is but one house that would bring out your fullest potential…' there was a hint of a smile in its voice, and she felt a shiver creep down her spine.

'Yes, it'd better be-'

She prays for mercy.

'-HUFFLEPUFF!'

Dread begins to settle into her stomach, twisting into knots and butterflies, and she slinks off the stool with a silent curse at the hat and towards her, now, cheering house.

Unbidden, a bubble of laughter spills from her lips, slightly sarcastic, slightly hysterical. How ironic, she couldn't help but think scathingly, how completely, and utterly, and _unamusingly_ ironic.

Her? A Hufflepuff? Will wonders never cease? She can hear her siblings laughing at her; twinkling merry sounds that echoes off the walls and floors to resonate within her soul.

She looks around the table and takes a seat as far away from the Boy-Who-Will-Die as possible. Thoughts and memories pool through her mind, and she tries her best to ignore the inquisitive questions her housemates throw at her. Cedric Diggory would die before the year was up, and it is with his death that the story will be fully set in motion. That things will _truly_ begin.

"I have only two words to say to you," Dumbledore says after standing up to address the hall, eyes twinkling as always, "Tuck in."

Suddenly plates upon plates of food appeared before her, mashed potatoes, turkey, chicken, soup, spaghetti, steak, treacle tart, and all manner of delicacies that one could imagine. She stares, wide-eyed, at the assortment before her and hesitantly grabs a chicken leg.

The next hour or so passes in a daze, food and pudding and chocolate being devoured by the hungry students around her. She can't muster the energy to eat more than the piece of chicken and a bit of caramel, waves off the concerned questions of her fellow Hufflepuffs. She would only be here for the year; there was no need to become…attached.

Eventually plates begin to disappear and it is with a detached interest that she watches Dumbledore stand to make his yearly speech. The first years around her seem to hang off his every word, so young and foolish – he is a great man to them, to everyone in this room, a great man of sacrifice and honor, and the Greater Good – but she can't help but feel a festering of hatred for the old wizard. She doesn't know how Harry could forgive him. She feels like this is his fault.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year." She hears him say, and a scowl threatens to overcome her face.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers' time and energy - but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts -" he didn't get to finish.

Thunder rumbled loudly throughout the room, the Great Hall's doors bursting open to admit one limping Mad-Eye Moody and she immediately shrinks into her seat.

Mad-Eye Moody was everything the book made him out to be and then some - the horrifically scarred face, the endlessly roving eye, and the clawed, wooden leg. However, what made him truly frightening was the fact that she knew that wasn't Mad-Eye at all. A man that could destroy her with a word took his place. She needed to be careful. Painfully careful.

"May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?" said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. "Professor Moody."

The hall was deadly silent. She wonders how he can't see the monster he's invited into the castle. The monster he's invited into his home.

Clearing his throat, Dumbledore continued, "As I was saying, we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

Just hearing the name of the tournament causes a shiver to go down her spine. She _really_ doesn't want to be here.

"You're joking!" said who she knew to be Fred Weasley loudly, and chuckles immediately begin around the room.

"I am not joking, Mr. Weasley," Dumbledore said, "Though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar."

She tuned them out, trying to remember a lullaby her mother would sing her to sleep with. She wonders vaguely where the woman is now. Wonders if she's happy.

Humming under her breath amid the laughter of everyone around her she closes her eyes and prays for a miracle, no matter how foolish it makes her feel. It was obvious now that God doesn't exist. Old habits die hard, apparently.

She searches her mind, her memories, and lets a long forgotten dream take root. Only one year.

\- What is there before life?

Around her, the students whisper of victory and respect, of money and eternal glory. They don't know that only pain and horror awaits those who enter the Triwizard Tournament. They don't whisper of the death that will surely come swiftly and silently for those not wary enough, for those not _careful_ enough. The death that _will_ come.

Someone asks her if she's feeling okay. She nods, not opening her eyes, mind far away and heart withered and dried – left behind with those long gone. She thought she could handle this. She thought she would be able to make it through this first year easily with her head down, be able to avoid any and all interactions that could make her a target.

She can't even make it through the first night.

Listening to the rustling robes around her, she finally allows her eyes to fall open and gets up to trail after the other first years who talk excitedly to each other. Letting her lips fall into a slight sneer she can't help but hate them for their innocence – for their naivety. They remind her of sheep. Why was she put into this house? What 'potential'?

They follow a prefect whose name she does not know down the many corridors until eventually they stop before a shadowy stone recess where a pile of large barrels are stacked upon each other. Tapping out a rhythm on the barrel two from the bottom, in the middle of the second row, the large front opens up to reveal an earthy passage which they follow upwards until they come into what she can only guess is the common room. The room is decorated in the cheerful, bee-like colors of yellow and black, emphasized by the use of highly polished, honey-colored wood for the tables and the round doors which lead to the boys' and girls' dormitories. A colorful profusion of plants and flowers seem to relish the atmosphere of the Hufflepuff common room: various cacti stand on wooden circular shelves (curved to fit the walls), many of them waving and dancing at passers-by, while copper-bottomed plant holders dangling amid the ceiling causes tendrils of ferns and ivies to brush her hair as she passes under them.

A portrait over the wooden mantelpiece (carved all over with decorative dancing badgers) shows Helga Hufflepuff, one of the four founders of Hogwarts School, toasting her students with a tiny, two-handled golden cup. Small, round windows just level with the ground at the foot of the castle show a pleasant view of rippling grass and dandelions, and, occasionally, passing feet. These low windows notwithstanding, the room feels perennially sunny. She dislikes it immediately.

Turning her attention towards the important-looking Hufflepuff at the front of the room, she listens to her explain on how to get into to the common room and other such things that she's not really paying attention to. She hears a mew and looks down to see Sasha's sapphire eyes blinking up at her. Relieved at the sight, she leans down and scoops the cat into her arms, letting her face find the soft fur and feel the soothing vibration of purring. Following the other first year girls into their dormitory, which is furnished with comfortable wooden bedsteads covered in patchwork quilts, she slumps into the bed with her trunk situated in front of it.

Closing the curtains around the bed she lets Sasha curl onto her stomach; lets her eyes drift closed to meet with her family once again. Chocolate, and honey, and caramel, and taffy, and hopscotch, and hide-and-seek–

Her sister looks up at her with wide sapphire eyes, a smile tugging on her lips as she tries to hide the chocolate she stole, and her brother grins at her so widely his eyes are forced shut, ruffling her head as he tells her all about his new roommate – who she thinks he just might be in love with – while her mother is behind them, serving their father a freshly baked brownie, smiling softly. The house echoes with music and laughter, so hauntingly clear, and she is filled with resentment and sadness and grief. She did not ask for this. She did not want to die.

Her brother looks confused for a moment and asks her what's wrong – he's always been able to tell when something's happened to her, always – and her eyes are wrenched open as something large and heavy is shoved onto her. She takes a moment to stare at the white ceiling of the room. She had the world in the palm of her hands, life and music and joy and love and family and now-

Nothing.

She's never felt so empty before.

\- What does it mean to mourn your own life?

o.O.o

Victoria Dodger has always been a difficult child.

Never paid attention in school, never did her homework, never made any friends, never seemed to _care._ Teachers tried anything – everything – to make a difference in her life. To get through to her. It wasn't helped that her own mother seemed to be just as apathetic, how she only listened with a downward stare and nod at whatever they said. Such a troublesome, difficult child and it would only make sense that they would eventually give up.

If they knew-

\- What is there after death?

Would it really seem so surprising?

What is the point of school, and work, and friends, and family when she knew she would only die again? When she knew this is not where she belonged? Why _should_ she care?

She never asked to live. She never wanted to.

What's dead should stay dead.


	3. Decision

The first time he notices her, he isn't really sure what he's looking at. She was small for her age, bright auburn hair that fell messily down her back and wide black eyes set on a scowling face. He hadn't thought much of her, at the time, until it was time for her sorting – hers had taken the longest, by far. It wasn't uncommon for children to sit on the wooden stool for a minute or two, sometimes even 5 – what was uncommon, however, was for a child to be sorted for up to 10 bordering on 15.

How odd, he had thought, and moved on, putting the bright headed young girl out of his mind. He hadn't really thought of her until one of his friends mentioned her in passing.

"Man, those first years are getting into trouble early, they better not cost us the house cup!" said friend exclaimed, shoving his quill into his bag with a curse as his inkbottle upended and dumped goopy black liquid down his robes.

"What do you mean?" he asked curiously, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Oh, I heard about that!" butted in Arin with a grin, "apparently two of the firsties got into a fight about some missing perfume, which turned physical, and accidentally sent one of the other girls to the hospital wing."

"What?" he asked incredulously, muttering a quick Scourgify at a spluttering Mark (who had somehow managed to get ink into his mouth) "how'd that happen?"

"Well, the other girl- Victoria, I think her name was– was sleeping when one of the girls was pushed onto her."

"And that sent her to the hospital wing?"

"Well, Victoria is a small thing see; the other girl outweighed her easily…"

"Yeah, and the fight didn't end there, Victoria ended up in the crossfires," added Mark, nodding along with Arin, "I heard there were some pretty nasty hexes cast."

"Bloody hell!"

"Yeah, Professor Sprout had a fit when she found out, gave both girls detention for an entire month."

"The Professor must have been really mad, she's usually the most lenient about punishments" he said, "maybe we should go visit that girl in the hospital wing- Victoria right? Anyone know her last name?"

"Podger or something-or-other," said Mark absently, "and why should we? We have better things to do than focus on some little firstie, we have potions next…Snape's gonna be a right pain."

"Besides," added Arin, "I'm sure her friends will be there, it wouldn't be 'polite' of us to butt in."

"Well, if you say so…" he said uncertainly.

"Honestly, you're too nice for your own good."

So, he had listened to his friends and tried to put the girl out of his mind. He had succeeded, mostly, focusing on his studies and friends and the Triwizard Tournament.

Time passes. Life goes on.

It isn't until he is physically faced with her that he begins to think that maybe something more is going on.

o.O.o

"Snape's a slave driver…" moans Danny, and Arin pats him on the back sympathetically.

"That's what you get for taking advanced Potions" Mark says blandly, and he laughs at Danny's downtrodden expression.

"I'll never survive the year…"

"Oh, shit, were late for Charms!" Arin says suddenly, and the other boys curse and begin to hastily pack away their books and parchment.

"See you at lunch?" Danny asks the last boy of their group, who, unfortunately, had Charms the previous day.

He grins at them disarmingly and waves them away with a "see you later" and the boys scurry towards the door, steadfastly avoiding Madam Pinces sour expression.

Sighing, he begins to gather his supplies (making sure the cap to his inkwell is _properly_ fitted on)and is prepared to leave when he notices a group of first year girls surrounding something.

"Why are you even here?" he hears one of them say loud enough for those around her to hear, but not enough to draw Madam Pinces attention.

"Yeah, you've made it pretty clear you don't care about anything."

"Except maybe," he hears one of them say, "you're cat- how pathetic!"

Frowning he takes all of this in. Unfortunately, bullying is pretty common in Hogwarts – especially between different Houses. The teachers will label it as House rivalry and leave it at that until it gets out of hand, but the emotional scars it leaves never fades. Kids can be cruel after all.

Letting his eyes roam the group of girls, he takes in their House colors – two Ravenclaws and, he's displeased to note, three Hufflepuffs. Pulling his book-bag up, he stalks closer to the group of girls, and takes note of the victim of their amusement.

Messy hair pulled into a messier bun, the girl didn't even bother to look up at her tormenters, instead focusing her dark eyes on a thick tomb in front of her. This seemed to anger the bullies further, and the brunette at the head of the pack slammed her hands down on the table with a bang.

"Pay attention when I'm speaking to you, you-!"

"A week of detention with Filch for bullying another student" he calls out before she can finish her sentence and the girls' start before whirling around to meet him.

"But-"

"You can't-"

"And another week," he interrupts smoothly, "for protesting."

The girls' turned scarlet and gathered their things before stalking off, muttering incoherently under their breath. Only after the other girls' had gone did the redhead let her eyes drift up to meet his. He felt his blood run cold.

Boring into him from narrow red glasses, the blackest set of eyes he had ever seen seemed to burrow into his soul. He could barely see her pupil, so dark were they, and looking into him he couldn't help but think of his grandma, whom he had sat beside until her last dying breath. Her eyes reminded him of the vacant _dead dead dead_ look he had seen in his own flesh and blood, and, for an instant, he felt terror. And then she was looking down, her eyes roving across the pages of her dusty tomb and he could almost believe that he just imagined the whole thing.

"Are you okay?" he asks instead, trying desperately to get that dead ( _deaddead)_ look out of his mind.

"…" the girl didn't say anything, didn't even give a hint that she noticed his presence at all and he felt uneasy. Only then did he notice the large red scar marring her leg, and he felt ashamed that he didn't notice it at first.

"Those girls didn't hurt you did they?" he asks, and she sighs in annoyance before placing her book down to give him her attention.

"That's from something else" she says, and her voice is steady and toneless; as dead as her eyes.

"You don't need to cover up for them" he says, half of him desperate to get away and half of him wanting to help (as is his nature) despite the dread settled in his stomach.

He could see why those girls bullied her. There was something about her that agitated him, more than her dead eyes and dead tone, and his instincts hissed at him to run away, to _fight_.

She seemed to be observing him, looking for something, and after a moment she sighed and looked away, unsurprised by whatever it was she found.

Turning her attention downward, she pulled the tomb closer to herself and pushed her glasses up.

"I'm trying to study," she said, "go away."

"I-" he said, closed his mouth, weighed his options, and decided.

"Would you mind if I sat with you?" he asked "I could help you with anything you have trouble with."

Her head whips towards him, surprise in her eyes, and she looks away as soon as she realizes what she'd done.

"No," she said, not looking toward him, "I would prefer it if you didn't."

"What's your name?" he asked stubbornly, and she peered up at him vacantly.

"…Victoria Dodger" she quietly mutters.

"I'm Cedric Diggory" he said, and she looked at him, something he couldn't pinpoint in her dead eyes- something like sadness and anger and grief. She thinks for a moment, opens her mouth and-

"I know."

Something about those words felt like a death sentence.

o.O.o

"Do you see her?" he asks, angling his head around his slumping friend, and he hears a loud groan emit from the weightless lump.

"Why do you care so much?" asks Arin, "It's just a first year…"

"I'm going to be her friend," he says determinately, and Danny rolls his eyes.

"Y'know, this could technically be called harassment," he points out, but Cedric ignores him.

For the past two weeks Cedric has taken to sitting next to Victoria Dodger at mealtimes, much to the annoyance of his friends and fans. He knew he was probably being stupid, that he should listen to the insistent thrumming in his head persuading him to stay away but…

How lonely, he couldn't help but think, must it be for everyone to be too scared to stay. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to spend an inordinate amount of time with her.

"Ah, there she is," cheers Mark, who was rather amused by the whole situation.

"Right, I'll see you at Ancient Runes," Cedric says, grabbing his things and making a beeline for the seat next to the younger Hufflepuff.

She looks at him disdainfully after he takes his seat, and pointedly begins to fill her plate while ignoring him. He noticed a few weeks back that she only wears her glasses while reading, which he finds odd. It's something his mother does.

"Hello!" he grins, "How were your classes today?"

She says nothing, but he wasn't really expecting an answer and begins to fill his own plate. He begins to chatter away about anything and everything, Quidditch, his classes, his friends, his parents – whatever comes to mind, and she stays silent throughout it all. He isn't disappointed; he'll get to her eventually. Soon it's time to go to their rooms, and he gives a cheery goodnight and repeats the process at breakfast. Then at lunch, then at dinner, and then the next day, and the next, and the next, and so on it goes; him talking a mile and minute, and her silently enduring his persistent chatter.

Until finally, she's not.

"Why do you keep coming back?" she asks exasperatedly one morning, when she tried to avoid him by coming to the Great Hall an hour earlier. He must have gotten the memo, however, and was already waiting there when she walked through the great doors.

"Because," he said cheerfully, "I want to be your friend!"

She stares at him bewilderedly, seeming to grasp for words.

"W-what?" she asks eventually, _"That's_ why?! For such a simple reason you've been basically stalking me?!"

"I haven't been _stalking_ you" he says crossly, and she rolls her eyes.

"Why didn't you just ask like a normal person?" she asks instead of addressing _that_ statement, and he grins at her.

"Because you would have said no."

She frowns at him, but doesn't say anything because she knows he's right.

"You can't be my friend," she mutters instead, her eyes drifting away from him to focus on some far off spot on the wall.

"Why not?"

"Because _you can't,"_ her eyes snap to him and she doesn't seem to be looking at him, looking _through_ him, and he feels a shiver go down his back, a desperation to get away humming through his veins. _Deaddeaddead eyes and burning hair, scorching him, he is drowning and burning and-_

A loud mew echoes in the room, and he looks downward, so desperately grateful for the distraction, to see a small black cat with bright blue eyes looking up at him. This interruption seems to bring the girl back down to earth, and she scoops the cat up before grabbing her things and standing quickly.

"Leave me alone," she says finally, and sweeps out of the room, cat curled against her chest.

He watches her go, hands shaking and heart beating wildly, and hardens his determination. Perhaps he's crazy, or suicidal, or any number of things, but there's one thing he's sure of.

Victoria Dodger _will_ be his friend.


	4. Nothingness

– Victoria Dodger has made a terrible mistake.

She slips into a room unseen, locks the door behind her, and simply stands. The room is dusty, moldy, unused in years and reeks with a faint scent of mildew. The room is small and disgusting and she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to spend even a moment in it. It's perfect.

Silently, quickly, she sets to work. Pushes unused desks against the far, moldy wall, banishes the thick dusk layering the cupboards and floor, and pulls a large, purple drape across the wide window that filters in orange sunlight. The room darkens immediately, and she takes a moment to just breathe. Listens to the silent dripping of a leaky faucet somewhere in the castle, the pattering of rats and pets, and feels something akin to peace. On a nearby desk, Sasha mews loudly at her, tail flicking back and forth and eyes shut contentedly. She knows, distantly, that she could simply use the room of requirements for her needs, but…it wasn't _hers._ In a years' time that room will become a safe haven for many, and she couldn't bring herself to intrude on such a sacred place. Not with knowing what hides in it.

Gingerly, she lies on the floor, pushes a plump pillow she pilfered from the dormitories under her head, and closes her eyes. And slowly, painstakingly, she begins to build her illusion. Her wand twirls in her hand, and she lets its magic take root in her veins.

Charms, she found, were easily her best and most favorite subject. It seemed to come to her as naturally as breathing, Professor Flitwick had enthusiastically commented more than once, and something about it just _clicked_ for her, like she was _born_ to cast Wingardiam Leviosa's and Alohomora's and any manner of spell she could think of. It was uncanny, how naturally it came to her, yet even that couldn't touch a hair upon her mastery with hexes and curses.

Curious and bored she had cast a silent Arricneo on Elysia Bennet's chair and watched in amusement as it immediately began bucking and galloping around the room in a clear attempt to rid itself of its rider. The girl had been thrown wildly from her seat and across the room, collapsing onto a group of unsuspecting Gryffindor's, and Victoria had been immensely pleased and confused. She hadn't meant to cast the charm so powerfully, hadn't put much will or thought into it, and had been expecting Elysia to merely be thrown to the floor. So, curious and intrigued, she experimented.

She cast a wordless Badger Badger Puff near a group of 3rd year Ravenclaws and watched as they immediately collapsed in heaps, a Cervifors that made her victim fall over from the weight of the horns on her head, and a Furnunculus that caused one of her 'tormentors' to break out in hideous boils that covered the entirety of her face. She had put little thought into each spell, barely let her magic take root on her victims, and yet somehow each of her hexes reacted like she had put every ounce of her being into them. It was odd and promising.

Lying on the dusty floor of an unused classroom on the 3rd floor corridor of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Victoria Dodger let a simple yet complex charm take hold of her mind. Her magic spread throughout the room evenly, crawling up the walls and over Sasha, curling around her skin and settling deep in her core. Opening her eyes she could see the results begin to take place immediately.

No longer was she in the dusty, moldy room that Hogwarts harbored. Around her the smell of baking cookies wafted pleasantly through the air, a breeze played with her hair, a vague scent of salt and water riding on its mist, and sunlight flickered weakly through light green drapes. Breathing deeply she felt tears sting at her eyes. A laugh echoed hauntingly clear in the empty space and she let her eyes drift to the open window where _he_ sat.

Messy brown hair and bright green eyes, a smile tugged at his face and mirth was deep-set in his eyes. Sasha curled up on her chest and she absentmindedly lets her hand run through her soft fur. He lets his legs cross on his space on the windowsill, sun outlining him, and plops his head into his hands.

"Look at you," he says, "lying there, grasping at something long gone."

"I miss you," she says, doesn't acknowledge his words, and he smiles brightly.

"I know."

"I don't know what to do," and she's crying now, fat tears plopping uselessly on her neck, and Sasha purrs comfortingly.

"That's okay," he says, jumps off the window to sit next to her, head bopping up and down to some unknown tune.

"I want to go home."

"I know."

"I hate it here."

"That's okay."

She thinks for a moment, watches the light bounce off his hair, his long lanky frame easily dwarfing her small one.

"I'm in Hufflepuff, can you believe it?" she laughs after a moment, and he laughs with her.

"Yes, well, Sarah would be pleased wouldn't she?" he says, grinning like a loon, and she cries harder.

"Why did this happen to me?" she sobs desperately, and he pauses a moment, seems to weigh his words, and-

"I don't know. Sometimes shit just happens, shit we don't want or need, and we need to accept that, need to move on."

"Easy for you to say," She chokes out a laugh, "you're not the one dead."

"Yes well, I'm an illusion aren't I?" he says snippily and she laughs, wipes away some tears and turns her eyes towards the ceiling.

"I miss you," she says again, weakly.

"Of course you do, who wouldn't miss me?"

"I don't know what to do," her voice cracks, and he sighs heavily.

"Well, just take it one step at a time for starters," he says, a snobbish superior tone in his voice, "You don't want any part of this right? Then play your cards carefully, avoid the right players, and _don't get involved."_

"You always know just what to say," she laughs, sobs, tears streaming a careful path down her cheeks.

"Of course I do!" he exclaims, like it was obvious from the beginning and she was dull for just now getting it, "Were twins after all!"

And then the charm was flickering, it's time run out, and the breeze was gone, his voice fading, and the smell of mildew began to overpower sugar and honey.

She chokes out a sob, hand straining against her eyes, desperation and agony thrumming through her heart, and she was left grasping at-

Echoes.

o.O.o

Once upon a life Victoria Dodger was nothing and everything.

She saw nothing, heard nothing, smelt nothing, felt nothing, _was nothing._ Surrounded by the empty black space of _nothingness_ she gasped and spluttered for life, clinging to the last traces of being alive until, eventually, nothing. In this… _place…_ time didn't exist – sight, smell, hearing, feeling, _living._ Blackness and nothingness, the dark space between stars, and something like peace settled over the nothingness of her own existence.

Her arms spread wide throughout the universe, became everything, and life choked in her grasp, stuttered to a halt, and galaxies thrummed in her presence. She was death and life and everything in between, and _nothing_ could escape her. She coaxed planets to life and lead stars to their death, she had no will or mind, she simply _was._ It was a dream – she held the entirety of the universe in her palms, her body blanketed the stars, and she was one with everything. She existed and yet she did not, for she felt nothing and was nothing. How could nothing exist? She was a dream-

And then she woke up.

o.O.o

Sometimes, in the darkness of the night, she _dreamed._

She dreamed of the nothingness that she was, the distortions of reality that haunt her every day, and she feels terrified. These dreams, these… _memories_ are always the same.

She stands in the expanse of a large classroom, rows upon rows of desks surrounding her on all sides and each carrying a vase of pure white lilies. The sky is red, the moon a clock face that does not tick, and the world is slowly crumbling. She sits in a desk next to window, a white drape billowing in a nonexistent wind, and watches the blackness consume the world. She can hear children crying, begging for help, and she can do nothing but sit and watch. Slowly, cracks begin to form on the moon and red begins to drip and reach for her, claws of blood and misery staining the still crumbling world and she watches with a detached interest. A pure white lily is stained with red, and begins to wilt and wither away, the ashes of its form burning acid through her desk, and the others begin to do the same. The blackness is reaching for her, desperate to catch her, and she feels the familiar _nothingness_ consume her soul and feels the weight of a world crumbling beneath her feet, life blinking out like lights, and she is _nothing and everything and-_

"Did you know," she says one evening, and Diggory looks at her eagerly because it isn't often she initiates conversation herself, "that lilies are the flower of death?"

He looks curious, and she smiles at him slow and sweet, like she has a secret, and-

"Did you know" she says again, "that in Japan when a student dies a vase of flowers is put on their desk as a show of mourning?"

He looks vaguely disturbed, can't meet her eyes, and her smile widens,

"Or, if the student is still alive, it's a form of bullying? A way of saying, 'I wish you were dead'."

He doesn't ask why she's saying these things, and she's not really sure of it herself. She is giving him secrets, little tidbits of information in small handfuls, and is slowly selling her soul away. She is scared and confused, and as each day passes the pounding in her head gets worse.

Slowly, steadily, time passes – one week, two weeks, three – and she dreads the arrival of the other schools. Diggory looks conflicted, eyes darting towards his friends, and she can see the decision weighing heavily in his mind.

_I wish Cedric didn't die, he was so cool!_

"I think I'm going to enter the Triwizard Championship," he says one day.

_But, he had to die didn't he?_

For a long moment, she says nothing. Just stares, and he shifts uncomfortably at the death in her eyes.

_What?! What do you mean? His death was so pointless! He didn't have to die!_

"What if I told you," she says slowly, and he seems to cling onto her every word, indecision and desperation in his eyes. She finds it amusing.

 _That's the point isn't it? He_ didn't _have to die._

"That I have absolute certainty that you will die?"

_That's what makes Voldemort so frightening._

He looks confused, scared even, and she has a moment of breathlessness that he will take heed to her words, that he will listen, but something hard enters his eyes.

 _That's what makes him_ Voldemort.

"I will not die," he says, and she laughs long and loud.

_That's what persuades Harry to fight._

"I don't care," she says, and for a moment she can almost believe she's telling the truth.

_Well, he still shouldn't have died…_

"I'm going to enter the Triwizard Tournament," there is conviction in his eyes now, his body sitting upright and tall and she understands why the Goblet will choose him.

 _Stop pouting;_ I _think Cedric's death was_ essential _._

"I'm going to win."

_If Cedric didn't die, we would never really understand how horrible Voldemort was._

"No," she says, "you won't."

_Harry would never really understand why he had to fight._

o.O.o

\- Victoria Dodger has made a horrible, terrible mistake.

The next day, he comes and eats with her like usual – and the day after that, and the day after that, and so on it continues. They don't talk about what happened, the things she said, and she is content with that. She was foolish, to try and change things no matter how slight or underhanded it was and she resolves to never attempt to do so again. She begins to distance herself.

One week, two weeks, three.

They are pulled out of their classes to watch the delegation from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive, and even she is filled with something akin to awe at their flashy entrances. She picks out those that will enter the Tournament with ease and watches them with hooded eyes. The first-years whisper and mutter around her, and Dennis Creevey attempts to strike up a one-sided conversation. She lets him talk and listens to Dumbledore's speech, and goes to bed with lead in her stomach. War is coming, and by the end of the year Voldemort will take hold of the world with blood and misery. Sasha twists around her ankles and curls on her head and she begins to tell herself a simple truth.

She is alone.

There is no one that will protect her.

She must survive.

o.O.o

The next day she watches Diggory put his name in the Goblet of Fire and prays for a miracle.

o.O.o

It's Halloween before she knows it and she sits next to an anxious Cedric Diggory, her house chattering excitedly around her, and her heart is in her stomach. She knows what will happen, has dreaded it for months, but that doesn't mean she is prepared.

She is severely, laughingly, unprepared. Sasha is sitting on her shoulder, tail flicking back and forth, and she takes small comfort at the presence of her friend. She turns her eyes towards the front of the Great Hall where Dumbledore was getting to his feet. The Goblet's fire glowed eerily, and a shiver ran down her spine. There was something unnatural about it, even to her, and she could feel rank death hovering around it; a cloak of darkness and misery shrouding the flames that lick hungrily at the air. She wonders if the souls of those lost in the Tournament were here.

"Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision," said Dumbledore. "I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber" - he indicated the door behind the staff table - "where they will be receiving their first instructions."

With a great sweep of his wand, the candles scattered throughout the room blew out and the bluey-whiteness of the Goblets flames shone throughout the room so brightly it hurt her eyes. Even so, she couldn't turn them away, her whole body being drawn to the death that emitted hauntingly from the large cup. The world around her was vanishing; she could see _it,_ the darkness and nothingness and _Death-_

"The champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore read, in a strong, clear voice, "will be Viktor Krum."

A storm of applause rang throughout the room, she heard Karkaroff yell something distantly, but she isn't really paying attention. She sees Krum exit through the door into the next chamber out of the corner of her eyes and she somehow drags her eyes away from the high burning flames the Goblet emits. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," said Dumbledore "is Fleur Delacour!"

The Goblet of Fire turned red once more, her body tensed despite itself, and she dug her nails into her thighs. The tension in the air was palpable, excitement thrumming through the students around her, but she could only feel dread. Her heart in her throat, her eyes were once more drawn to the red flames that, moments later, shot sparks of red and a bright piece of parchment from its grasp. Dumbledore caught it easily, a tongue of flame leaving it behind, and he held it up for inspection.

"The Hogwarts champion," he said, and Diggory tensed beside her, clutched her hand painfully, "is Cedric Diggory!"

Her heart dropped like a stone, the students around her roared and cheered, stomping their feet and Diggory leapt up beside her. A large, untamed smile was on his face, excitement bright in his eyes, and she watched him blankly.

"I did it," he whispers to her, and she says nothing.

"I won't die," he tells her, and she doesn't believe him for a second.

"I promise."

She watches him go with dead eyes, and turns her attention toward a brightly smiling Dumbledore. She feels hatred for the man fester in her heart.

"Excellent!" Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. "Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real -"

He suddenly stopped speaking, and confused, the students around her started muttering. She watched as the Goblet lit red once more and spat a burning piece of parchment through the air. The tension was so palpable she could probably cut through it with a knife.

Dumbledore caught it immediately and stared down upon the small slip of parchment as the student body stared upon him. Then, clearing his throat, he read out-

"Harry Potter."

The boy in question immediately paled, staring blankly up at the headmaster, obviously not comprehending what was happening.

Victoria Dodger watches with dead eyes, watches the boy who will go on to change the world, and hardens her resolve. Harry stumbles to his feet, exiting the room to the next chamber and whispers began to grow from table to table, friends gossiping of what just happened – anger and hate, awe and amazement – and she watches all of this silently. On her shoulders, Sasha's tail flicks back and forth sharply, the edge brushing her cheeks. Ron Weasley looks flushed and angry, and Hermione Granger looks shell-shocked. On her thighs red life begins to drip a steady beat on the tiles of the floor.

And so it begins.

o.O.o

She begins preparing.

She borrows a map from a first-year muggleborn and looks over it studiously with Sasha curled around her shoulders. With her mother having abandoned her she would need a place to live – somewhere far from the war.

And, so, hours are spent like this. Curled before the large map as she weighs the pros and cons of each respective country, and it takes time, days even, but then-

She knows.

o.O.o

Once upon a life Victoria Dodger was everything and nothing.

She knows things that would turn this world on its head, things that could cause even the most world-hungry men to shiver in fear. She has both existed and not, has both hated and loved, lived and died, and has greeted Death as something of an old friend. Despite this, even she makes mistakes.

\- Victoria Dodger has made a terrible, horrible mistake.

She had a simple plan – keep her head down, limit who she talks to, _not get involved._

She hadn't meant to catch certain people's attention-

She certainly hadn't meant to-

Life and death, everything and nothing, sugar and honey, the darkness between stars-

\- Victoria Dodger has begun to care.


	5. Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've stated on my FF account that I have no pairings planned for this story, and I'm holding true to that. I just don't think Victoria's current mental stability will allow for that, and I can't honestly see her with any of the characters. This story will remain GEN until there comes a time where I change my mind, which is HIGHLY unlikely. This just isn't that type of story.

  * Victoria Dodger was in love once upon a life.



_Deep_ love, love the likes of which one would experience once-a-lifetime, the type that love-songs and stories are written about, and she both hated and loved it in equal measures.

Despite the deep, _love-love_ she felt she wasn’t a _fool,_ she knew he was…he was a bad person. A rotten no good person, but a person she loved nonetheless – and she knew he loved her as well, knew he regretted and hated his actions, _himself,_ because he would whisper it to her, whisper his hate and rage and _sorry’s, because he can’t help it, he really can’t, and even as he-_

She loved him.

o.O.o

She’s ambling down the corridor when she makes her decision.

(A decision that will shape and change her, that will change _things,_ and help and destroy her all the same-)

With no destination in mind she often finds herself wandering the halls, slipping from room to room unseen and uncovering any secrets she can find. She doesn’t do it for _joy_ or _adventure,_ but rather, boredom, for places to _hide._

“…I see no difference at all,” she hears a soft, calm voice speak out.

Shouting and roaring echoes throughout the corridor as she comes into view of the commotion to see a tearful, whimpering Hermione clutching her face, and steadily growing teeth, while an indifferent and smug Snape looks on. Her lip curls.

Sometimes, people will say – people with _hope_ and _faith_ in humanity – someone will do the wrong things for the right reasons.

Or other-times, she thinks privately, they’re just assholes.

Snape was a miserable man.

All bark and no bite, there was little doubt that he was a formidable opponent, capable of many, _terrifying_ things, but there was also no doubt that he was needlessly _cruel._ He let his rage and the emotional trauma of past bullying and differences get to him and began belittling and emotionally scarring young and impressionable children that had no knowledge on why they were being so scorned in the first place. She had felt sympathy for him, for his hurt and anger and _misery,_ but she does not condone his actions. She does not forgive the way he treats others, children, and she finds him _petty_ and _cowardly_ and _cruel._ If he truly loved Lily he would-

_And maybe she was the same, so enraptured in her own misery and anger she refuses to offer help where she can, would rather watch children die than become involved – than putting_ herself _in_ danger. _Perhaps she has no room to talk, because she is a disgusting, waste of space that serves no purpose in this world; she_ shouldn’t exist, _and her being here only makes things w o r s e. She is_ w o r s e _than Snape, so much worse, because she has the capacity to change things, the knowledge to help and yet she does not because of_ fear _(fear will do horrible things to a person, will warp them and_ twist _them into something they’re not; break them so bad they will never fit into the molds they used to be). Why does she bother? The anger and hatred and sadness and misery is so all consuming, she misses her family_ (where are they again?) _, and to continue on like this is going to kill her. Her brain cannot handle the weight of two lifetimes, her soul is burned and seared, screaming for peace, for rest, and she will break soon-_

She slips past the screaming Golden Duo to stalk up the stairs and after a sobbing Hermione’s back. Snape notices and gives her a sneer as she walks by, she takes a moment to stare at him _coldly_ _(deadly),_ and she sees his eyes widen minutely as he turns his head away – vicious satisfaction thrums through her – going instead to focus on Hermione’s ‘friends.’

So intent on defending their friends honor, they didn’t realize that _maybe_ she needs help instead, needs to be comforted, and shown that someone cares. Perhaps, she needs a _friend._

As she silently makes her way up the many steps, leaving behind the loud cursing and screaming, she takes a moment to reflect on her current actions.

She should really stop.

She should avoid this.

This might _change_ things, might get her _noticed._

But, honestly, she tells herself, what are the chances of Hermione recognizing her? The ‘Golden Trio’ interacted with people every day, people who loved and _helped_ them, so, _really,_ what’s one more..?

_Or maybe this will stop the horrible guilt ridden disgusting feeling enveloping her being, will make some of the_ pain _disappear – please let it disappear, she is so tired, so_ t i r e d…

‘Perhaps,’ her mind whispers quietly, ‘Diggory really has gotten to us, has changed us.’

She banishes the thought and moves on because-

_This_ _changes nothing._

o.O.o

She finds the brunette collapsed in the middle of the girl’s lavatory, teeth _still_ rapidly growing and sobbing helplessly. Sighing she runs her fingers through her bright hair and debates her options one last time.

She doesn’t want to do this.

She _really_ doesn’t want to do this.

(But she kind of does. She wonders what it feels like to be a _good_ person, if it will ease her pain and make her _more.)_

“Do you need some help?” she calls out at last, voice gravelly and small from disuse and the other girl flinches before turning to her with wide eyes.

Her teeth are now well past her chest and rapidly approaching her knees, and she feels a morbid thrill of amusement before she crushes it down.

“I don’t think we can get you to Madame Pomfrey as you are now,” she adds, and Hermione’s eyes fill with tears once more, “but I’m quite good at charms.”

Hermione looks conflicted, obviously debating her options, but it isn’t like she has much of a choice. As the teeth steadily approach her stomach, it is made clear that Hermione doesn’t have much time before they’re lifting her off the floor. Nodding jerkily, and whimpering in pain when her teeth butt into her stomach, she gives her consent.

“Just tell me when to stop…” she mutters absently, mind far-gone and elsewhere, as she slips her wand out of her sleeve and conjures a small mirror.

Aiming the stick at the still growing teeth, she utters a quick “Reducio” for the sake of appearance.

And slowly, slowly, the teeth begin to shrink, and Hermione looks so _happy_ and _grateful_ and of course she lies about when to stop shrinking her teeth (Sarah always did find that amusing, had _wished_ so badly she could do the same) and a tiny _sliver_ of _pleasure_ slips up her spine, because she’s _proud_ , she feels _proud_ of herself.

(And she only hates herself more because she can do so much more if she wanted, she could make things _so much better_ if she wasn’t such a rotten _coward-)_

  * So _petty_ and _cowardly_ and _cruel-_



“Thank you so much,” the girl whispers tearfully, and she _runs._

o.O.o

“Dragons,” he gasps, pale and sweaty and _panicked,_ and she feels annoyance creep up her spine as she looks up from the _very_ interesting book settled on her knees.

“Hm?” she raises her eyebrow at him, doesn’t really _say_ anything, and slides her books out of the way so he can plop down several tombs in front of her.

“The first task is _dragons-!”_ he clarifies, and positively _collapses_ in the chair opposite of her. He looks sick and _scared,_ and she tries to convince herself not to care.

(It’s so very lonely to be in a world by herself.)

There is a palpable tension in the air, a tension he seems willing to ignore for now, the pressure of the Triwizard Championship heavy and _looming,_ and there are much more important things to worry about then the obvious weight between them.

She’s been avoiding him for weeks now, won’t- _can’t_ be with him, near him, and the pounding in her head is _screeching_ because he will die, he will die _soon_ and she can’t do anything, she just _can’t._

(It is _so, very_ lonely.)

“You honestly didn’t think this would be a walk in the park, did you?” she asks instead of addressing it, picks up the closest tomb and rifles through it absently. Tries to ignore the pounding and hissing.

“Well, no,” he stutters, flustered, and she rolls her eyes. She is feeling irritable, moody, and she can’t be bothered to care about anything right now.

She is tired.

So very, _very_ tired.

_Begging and screeching, and hoping and praying, she doesn’t want to go, not yet, just a little more time, she wants to say goodbye-_

_She loves him so very, very much – why did he-_

“Well, what were you thinking?” she asks, puts down the tomb because it held no information of consequence whatsoever and moves to pick up the next one.

“I, well, I was thinking Transfiguration maybe?” he mumbles, obviously embarrassed and some of her irritation fades. (This boy, child, always seems to have that effect on her-)

“Not bad,” she says, turning her _darkdark_ eyes to the tomb, letting them run over the page swiftly and easily (she has read so many books in this lifetime, so many, and a part of her just wants to _stop_ ), “it _is_ your best subject after all…”

He shoots her a small smile, relief and unease in his eyes, he’s been avoiding her too, shame and guilt and _happiness_ warring with his determination to be her friend, and she tries not to hate him, she really tries.

_She always forgives him, always, because surely this is all her fault?_

_Surely he loves her, right?_

_Right..?_

“I could transfigure a nearby boulder into a dog or something, to distract the dragon from me…” he trails off, grabs a piece of parchment and starts scrawling away.

“I doubt that would hold the dragon’s attention for long,” and she doesn’t know why she’s helping him, it’s all so _pointless_ after all, _he’s going to die anyway. She’s talking to a dead man walking._

“You’re probably right,” he nods, and draws a small ‘x’ next to the note, “besides; I don’t know _what_ exactly the task is; only that it involves dragons…”

Sasha suddenly jumps up onto the table and Diggory smiles brightly as he rubs her ears firmly. She tries not to feel pleased.

(Sasha is the only living thing she truly cares for, and the thought of being without her, of _never_ having her, fills her with rage and sadness and misery-)

“I suggest using some potions as well,” she adds, “these are _dragons_ after all, you’re going to need all the help you can get. Don’t focus too much on Transfiguration, that’s foolish and will most likely get you killed, and instead ask ‘what else am I good at?’ Try to incorporate different spells into whatever your plan of action may be and _don’t rush in._ That will only kill you soo-” she cuts herself off before she can finish her sentence, and Diggory doesn’t seem to notice.

He’s hastily writing on his piece of parchment, Sasha settled on his lap, and looks so _enlightened_ her head hurts. She wants to be away from him, from everything, from… _this._

Time passes. Just sitting. Not talking, not looking at each other, just…companionship. She can’t remember how long it’s been since she’s felt this calm, has felt something so close to happiness. Was there a time when she was happy? She doesn’t know, can’t remember.

She suddenly needs to be far away.

_What was she thinking becoming friends like this? They_ were _friends, weren’t they? Or, perhaps, something for his own amusement, a plaything? It doesn’t matter anyway._

“You’ll be fine,” she says abruptly, stands up, grabs her things and turns to stalk from the library.

“Wait-! Victoria!” he calls out, and she stops for a moment to hear what he has to say but doesn’t turn around.

“Thank you,” she can hear the smile in his voice, and she feels anger and _hatred_ and sadness raging an unending war in her heart, “and I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t ask what he’s sorry for, doesn’t need to, and merely nods.

They both know he’s lying.

o.O.o

More time passes.

She watches Diggory plot and plan, watches him feverishly work, sees him try to _survive_ and sometimes she helps him.

Most times she doesn’t.

She feels rotten and despicable and horrible and she doesn’t know why.

She watches Harry Potter, watches him grow tenser and tenser with each passing day, the anger and _hurt_ in him as he rages and roars with his best friend, lions that they are, because he is _just a child, they are all children how dare this rotten world throw them-_

And she silently watches, and she silently seethes, and she silently hates.

_‘Would your family want this?’_ her mind sometimes whispers, when she’s feeling particularly…detached. ‘ _Do_ you _want this?’_

But she stays silent and she ignores it because _she doesn’t know._ Perhaps, she couldn’t help but think, this is her punishment.

This world made a mistake, gambled on the wrong soul, and _she’s_ the one who has to pay for it.

She’s so tired.

“Are you okay?” Diggory asks her one day, hesitantly, falteringly, and she flinches.

Is she so obvious? Is she so pathetically _obvious_ that even Diggory, whom has been distracted and tense with the upcoming task, noticed?

“I’m fine,” she says, turns back to her homework, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“You know I’m here for you, right?” he tells her, and she valiantly turns her eyes downward, “You can talk to me about anything.”

_No,_ she wants to say, _I really, really can’t._

Instead, she nods her head and continues her very interesting and unique report on the value of gold and how Goblins have shaped and changed the economy. He looks flustered, opens his mouth and-

“It’s just,” she says, and he stops, looks at her _expectantly (as if she’d reveal her life’s story to him, as if she_ cares _for him enough to)_ “the stress of keeping up with my studies.”

His lips are pulled into a small frown; she bites down the irritating _guilt,_ and he eventually nods. She owes him _nothing._

She should have known he wouldn’t let it go so easily.

o.O.o

“Why am I here?” she asks flatly, and is unimpressed by the stern look the other sends her.

“One of your friends is worried about you,” McGonagall replies, and she feels like rolling her eyes because _really?_

She only has one friend, one guess who, and she can feel irritation and _happiness_ seep into her bones; because honestly, when was the last time someone cared so much about her?

(When was it again?)

“Yes, well please tell _Diggory_ ,” McGonagall’s face tightens for a moment, “that I’m fine so he can stop mother henning me.”

“Regardless,” McGonagall says, pushing her glasses up, “I am obligated to check up on you, whether you are fine or _not,_ and I have informed Madam Pomfrey of your impending checkup later today-”

“Why?” flatly said, she lets her expression fall into one of feigned disinterest.

“Just to be sure,” McGonagall replies evenly, obviously irritated by the interruption and she feels _amused._

“No thanks.”

“It was _not_ a suggestion, Ms. Dodger.”

She scowls irritably, because _why_ is she having this conversation with McGonagall of all people? Where was Sprout? She could handle that woman much easier.

(She doesn’t care about these people, doesn’t care about their problems and hardships, and most certainly doesn’t care about their _worry.)_

“When do you want me there?” she drawls instead of asking, irritation and annoyance and something like joy overwhelming her, and the other woman nods briskly before handing her a piece of parchment with a time and date on it.

_She just wants to sleep, just wants to go_ home _and lay her head down and rest._

_She wonders if-_

“Don’t be late,” McGonagall advises before she’s being herded out of the office and into the bustling corridor. She stands there for a moment, merely taking in the sound of yelling children, girlish giggles, and joking friends, before wordlessly hexing a nearby Slytherin harassing a group of first years into being forced to hop on one leg, the other being twisted and bound to his back. The corridor bursts into giggles and she only feels more irritable and angry.

Turning sharply on her heel, she stalks back to the dormitories and all nearby students shiver when they see her, hastily move out of her way because her eyes _burned and drowned and they were so dark and so dead-_

She wasn’t angry, not really just-

Tired.

When she sees Diggory at lunch he smiles hesitantly at her and she says nothing. It won’t matter soon anyway.

_What a disgusting thought, does she really care so little? Is she really so_ sick?

– A part of her, a small, _small,_ miniscule part of her has begun to feel responsible for him.

(Perhaps it’s because she can see some of her brother in him–)

o.O.o

“Open your mouth,” says Pomfrey, and she resists the urge to scowl as she obliges.

The woman nods after a moment and she closes her mouth with a snap.

“Now then, I’m going to ask you a few questions,” the older woman says, “please be honest with all of your answers.”

She picks up a nearby clipboard and quill, eyes trailing down the parchment as she begins to list off a series of questions.

“In the past two weeks, how often have you felt down, depressed, or hopeless?”

She quirks her eyebrow in surprise and fights down her bubbling irritation.

“Not at all,” she lies easily, and the other woman says nothing as she marks something down.

“Have you had any thoughts of suicide?”

“No,” that at least, was a partial truth. She really didn’t want to die again.

(But she also wondered what would happen if _she did_ die. _Would she go home? Would she wake up? Would she_ go somewhere else?)

“How is your sleep?”

“Good.”

“Can you please elaborate?”

“I sleep well every night,” she huffs.

“Have you had any declines in energy?”

“No.”

“Do you prefer to stay at home rather than going out and doing new things?”

She’s silent for a moment, weighing her options, before eventually conceding with a “Yes.”

“Do you ever feel angry with yourself?”

“No.”

“Have you ever harmed, or attempted to harm yourself?”

“No.”

Nodding, Pomfrey waves her wand and the clipboard floats back to her office. Tidying the bed around her, she reaches into a nearby cupboard and hands her several bottles of brightly colored potions.

“I want you to take these at mealtimes and before you go to bed,” the woman instructs, and she stares blankly for a long moment.

“What are these for?”

“I am diagnosing you with anxiety and depression,” Pomfrey explains, but that doesn’t really explain anything at all because _what_ anxiety, _what_ depression? _Hadn’t she answered all of the questions correctly? What the hell kind of medical doctors did the Wizarding World have? Isn’t there a better way of explaining than just shoving bottles at her and telling her, as an afterthought, of her condition, no matter how wrongly diagnosed it is?_

But she says nothing, picks up the bottles, and leaves.

_Fuck_ the wizarding world.

o.O.o

The next few days are spent curled in _her_ empty disgusting room, staring listlessly at something not-there and valiantly ignoring the ever increasing bottles in her trunk.

Her brother asks her what’s wrong and she finds momentary peace.

o.O.o

  
“Er, how are you..?” it’s asked tentatively, quietly, as all things are recently, and she rolls her eyes.

“Absolutely fine,” she replies shortly, and he winces, avoiding her eyes.

_She_ _doesn’t feel like dealing with this right now._

Usually she can humor him, at least a little, but today her thoughts are scattered and broken – clinging to the last remnants of sanity and holding so tightly it _hurts_ – and she can’t really scrounge up much interest in the conversation. Glancing at his face, she can see that he feels awkward and nervous around her, and lets her eyes drift back up to the sky.

They’re outside, and she’s lying on her back, staring up at the blue, _blue_ sky. (At least that’s still the same.) Her bright auburn hair fans around her and she can feel something like melancholy settle in her heart. Her dark robes feel thick and confining, the skirt settling on her knees awkwardly and the stockings felt itchy and warm. Her eyes hood as she watches the clouds lazily drift by, and she suddenly feels so _sad._ She’s tired, and she just wants to be _done_ with this wizarding business.

She wants to wear a nice, loose, white sun-dress while on vacation at that stupid lodge she’s always hated, she wants to bathe in the sun while wearing that scantily clad bikini her brother always tried to burn, she wants to eat steak in front of the broken-down TV her father insisted on keeping, and, more than anything, she wants to just sit and talk with _them_ for a while…her family. (Sometimes she can hear their voices bouncing off the walls, can see their incorporeal forms laughing and mocking her, can feel their skin rubbing against her own, and she _breaks_ a little more.)

She wants to get mad at the stupid pranks her brother pulls, or read a nice book with her sister while settled on the couch; she wants to cook delicious food with her mother and finish bad crosswords with her father. She wants to…go home.

“So, the first task is tomorrow,” he says, searching desperately for something of conversation, and he can tell she is _not-happy._

“So it is.”

“Are you going to come?”

“Maybe.”

“I hope to see you there,” he forces out in a rush before he _flees._

There is only so much even Cedric Diggory can take before he is overwhelmed. All things considered, he is still a child. _A child who will die-_

She needs to remember this.

Forcing herself to her feet, she scoops her small cat into her arms and glides her way through the throngs of students. Excited chatter fills the halls and she has to steadfastly avoid running into the Durmstrang boys and Beauxbatons girls. The school felt so crowded and full, and she couldn’t really stand it.

“U-um, excuse me?” she hears a small voice murmur out behind her, and, with irritation and poisonous words on her lips, she turns to see who it is, “your name is Victoria Dodger, right?”

And before her stands Hermione Granger in the flesh, bushy hair settled around her shoulders and now-normal teeth pulling at her bottom-lip nervously. In her arms are several thick tombs, a small parcel filled to the brim with even more of them settled on her shoulder, and something like dread drops into her stomach so harshly she has to focus hard not to stumble. She feels her heart lurch and takes a step away from her.

“I just wanted to thank you for what you did back…then,” Hermione says, face flushed with embarrassment, “I wanted to find you sooner, but nobody knew who I was talking about.”

She isn’t surprised. She seemed flit in and out of people consciousness, a side-effect of death perhaps, and typically only those who _want_ to find her can see her so easily. Like Diggory.

_Are you really going to let him die? Are you really so incapable and heartless? Isn’t he your friend? Isn’t he–_

She _does not_ want to be on this girl’s radar.

“I see,” she says, turns, and attempts to walk away.

“You’re Cedric’s friend right?” Hermione calls at her back, “are you going to cheer for him in the first task?”

She stops for a moment, lets her fingers run over Sasha’s soft fur, and lets out a silent sigh.

_He would always apologize, after._

_After he was finished and it was all well-and-done and she was left a broken mess, he’d hold her close and whisper how sorry he was, how much he loved her, he did it because-_

_She always believed him._

_And so, slowly, she began to hate him._

“No,” she tells the other girl, who looks so _surprised_ (why? This tournament has no _winners,_ only _death,_ and those so ‘privileged’ to play this sick, twisted game are truly _cursed,)_ “I told him not to enter.”

Hermione opens her mouth to say something, and-

“Tell Potter,” she interrupts smoothly, unthinkingly, “that if a single strand of hair on Diggory’s stupid, oversized head is so much as even _out of place_ I will hunt him down and make him wish _Voldemort_ _had_ _finished the job.”_

The girl looked flabbergasted, mouth opening and closing uselessly, and she feels something like _satisfaction_ settle in her stomach. (Another thing like _guilt_ clenches her heart.)

Clutching Sasha closer, she turns around sharply and stalks off.

_They were well-suited to each other, the two of them, – two pees in a pod, really – and they’re twisted love for each other only_ fueled _what passion they had._

_Because she was a_ sick _person as well, was as in love with him as he was her, obsessive love that it was, and their madness complimented each other_ perfectly.

_She was never a_ decent _person–_

She spends the rest of the day curled on a thick cushiony chair in the common room, settled before the small fireplace that inhabits it, Sasha purring heavily in her lap, and doesn’t really think about anything at all.

Around her the students chatter excitedly, _awe_ and _impatience,_ and she sinks further into the thick cushions, trying vainly to block out the voices, the incessant _pounding,_ and she can feel anger tugging at her chest. Tomorrow…

She does not want-

Why’d she have to go and-

(Be friends with him?)

She told herself she wouldn’t- wouldn’t _care_ or-or-

What has she gotten herself into?

She doesn’t want him to-

But he has to, doesn’t he?

That’s what she told Sarah so very long ago-

The broken thoughts tease and spit on her, showing how _broken_ and _worthless_ her mind is, and she tries her vainly to stop them. Digging through her parcel she brings out a small, bright red bottle and scowls at it.

She _isn’t_ depressed.

She _doesn’t_ have anxiety.

This…this is just to help her _unwind_ a little.

Holding to that thought firmly, she downs the bottle.

o.O.o

  * Victoria Dodger was _deeply, unfalteringly_ in love once upon a life.



When one speaks of love they speak of heartfelt confessions, of butterfly-filled stomachs, and the merging of two people – of long fights and eventual loving makeups, of panic-inducing dates and crazy love-love thoughts.

When Victoria Dodger speaks of love she speaks of hate and mercy, of blood on the floor and anger beyond measure, of _‘I’m sorry’s_ and _‘I’ll get better’s’_ – she speaks of obsession and _pain,_ of twisted romance and unending battles, she speaks of things one cannot truly understand because this was _her life. Her love._

This was _his._

And she was so, _so_ irrevocably in love.

  * That was her undoing.




	6. Resolve

\- Victoria Dodger was a broken, unwanted person that could never be fixed.

As she died she had gasped and whimpered for life, had begged _no,_ because she was not ready yet – not ready to leave behind her family and friends, not ready to _let go._

Another part of her was _very_ ready, _too_ ready to be done, and gone, and _dead_. Another part of her had been relieved at the thought of finally being set free from her life, from her pain, and it had accepted death readily and eagerly.

Nothing will change that.

She was broken.

This was a fact.

This world had only broken her more.

Another fact.

But, as she looks at the one person who reached out to her, who _tried_ to help and make things better, who showed her that, perhaps, this world wasn’t all that bad, she couldn’t help but feel…

Hope.

o.O.o

She is awoken early the next morning to the excited chattering and whispering _– excitement_ and _awe_ and they’re _so stupid –_ of her roommates and she groans as she pulls her pillow over her head. Sasha purrs happily from where she’s settled on her back and some of her irritation fades.

She turns over, stares at the ceiling, and silently contemplates.

Should she go today?

A part of her doesn’t want to go, is hissing and screeching at the thought of being to so close to _dragons,_ of becoming even more involved, but the larger part of her…

She would go then.

For Sarah.

( _Not_ because she’s worried about that stupid boy.)

o.O.o

She stumbles her way into the Grand Hall, students pushing and shoving her on all sides, annoyance bubbles hotly in her stomach, and, with barely a thought, she silently hexes the group of Ravenclaws crowding her into turning bright, neon purple. She looks appropriately surprised as McGonagall rushes to them and silently slips away.

She easily picks out Diggory from the mass of students (his magic was so unique, its signature standing out brightly in the crowd), and slides to him lazily. A few weeks ago she wouldn’t even think of doing such a thing.

(He’s changed her a lot.)

She collapses onto the great table tiredly, reaches for a piece of toast, and smothers it with grape jam. Next to her, Diggory cringes.

“How can you possibly eat that?” he wonders absently as he reaches for the molasses, and she scoffs.

Sasha jumps between them and starts batting at a hardboiled egg. Diggory gives her back a few strokes.

She’s feeling better this morning.

She almost feels… _there._

Alive.

“Have you figured out what you’re going to do about the dragon?” she asks him, taking small bites from her toast as she reaches for the eggs, peeling one and letting Sasha have her way with it. He freezes before forcing himself to relax.

She glances at him sharply, she wasn’t _stupid,_ and she could see how on edge he was this morning. His knees were bouncing up and down rapidly, sweat pooling in his collarbone and trailing down his face, and he was so _pale_ a Vampire would be jealous.

He shoots her a nervous smile and runs his fingers through his hair. Nearby, Cho Chang turns beat red and looks away.

“Yes- wait, I mean no?” he starts, voice shaky, and his eyes were darting everywhere, “Well, kind of, I honestly don’t know, maybe I should-“

“Shut up,” she drawls, rolls her eyes, “you’ll be fine. The Goblet chose you for a reason.”

“R-right,” he mutters, nods to himself, _what should she do he has to-he can’t-_ “Thanks Victoria…”

She nods and begins to load a small helping of hash browns onto her plate. Diggory hands her the ketchup and slips an egg onto her plate and she slides the pitcher of pumpkin juice to him. They’ve become used to each other’s routines.

They spend a long time just sitting and eating in companionable silence, until Professor McGonagall bustles over to them hurriedly, usual impeccable hair in slight disarray and expression pinched.

“Now then Mr. Diggory,” she says as she pulls him from the table, “all of the champion have to meet on the grounds; it’s time to prepare for the first task.”

“R-right,” he says shakily, paling even more, and McGonagall looks concerned for a moment before she’s dragging him through the throng of students.

Rolling her eyes once again, she pushes from the table, lets Sasha hop into her arms, and trails after them. Diggory shoots her a confused smile and McGonagall doesn’t seem to notice her at all.

“You didn’t think I’d let you go in there by yourself, did you?” she mutters quietly, completely ignoring the fact that she really _was_ prepared to do such a thing not a few hours ago, and his body relaxes slightly.

“Thanks,” he whispers, and she feels the urge to flee.

“No problem,” she says instead.

o.O.o

The Champions tent was small, cramped, and smelled horribly of rubber and dirt. Diggory glanced around nervously and shoots her an uncertain smile. She feels irritable.

They both curl into a corner of the magically enhanced room and Diggory begins pacing up and down impatiently. She gingerly sits on a nearby bed.

She didn’t want to admit it, but that potion…really helped.

She doesn’t feel so… _detached_ anymore.

_(She isn’t depressed. She doesn’t have anxiety, she doesn’t, she just doesn’t-)_

She absently pets Sasha as she watches Diggory pace with hooded eyes.

“So,” she says, and he turns to her gratefully for the distraction, “what’s your game-plan?”

He nervously shuffles his feet and looks at her in contemplation, before silently admitting, “I don’t want to jinx it…”

She hums and nods her head before patting the empty space next to her. He flops onto the bed with a groan and she scoffs before absently rearranging his robes to cover him properly.

“I understand,” she tells him and lets Sasha curl on his chest, “just don’t do anything too stupid.”

“No promises,” he grins, and she lightly punches him in the stomach.                                                   

She’s become somewhat fond of him. He reminds her of-

She opens her mouth to say something else, but is interrupted by the tent opening and Harry Potter himself slipping through. His eyes dart around nervously, he looks faint, before eventually locking onto Diggory in a desperate attempt to find someone familiar. Diggory gives him a small smile, and the other boys eyes flick to her for a moment before settling once again on their previous target. Harry returns the smile grimly.

“Diggory,” she says, and the boy looks exasperated for a moment (he was always trying to get her to call him by his first name, not that she ever would), “I want you to understand something.”

“What’s that?” he asks curiously, still pale and sweaty and nervous.

“Bad things happen around that boy,” she starts, and cuts him off before he can try to change her mind (not that he could), “I’m not saying it’s his fault; it’s just a fact. That’s why, should you two ever end up alone together while in this Tournament…”

He looks wary and confused and eager to know what she has to say. She doesn’t talk to him often. This is, perhaps, the most she’s ever talked to him since they first met on that day so many months ago (it feels like a lifetime ago).

 “You run the other way,” she hisses fiercely, eyes narrowing and voice lowering to a dangerous whisper.

(She’s abandoned her beliefs, she’s given up, and she doesn’t know what she’s doing anymore. She’s just…going with it-)

He looks slightly fearful, can’t look her in the eyes, and she’s confident she’s gotten her point across. He swallows heavily, sweat trailing down his face, opens his mouth and-

“Well, now that were all here - it’s time to fill you in!” Bagman says loudly, brightly, and she scowls as Diggory tugs her up to gather around the cartoonish man. They don’t seem to notice her.

“When the audience assembles I’m going to be offering each of you _this_ bag” he says, holding up a sack of purple silk and shaking it at them, “From which you will select a small model of the thing you’re about to face! There are different, er, varieties you see. And I have something else I must tell you too, ah, you’re task is to _collect_ _the Golden Egg!”_

Diggory nods once, drags her away, and promptly begins to pace the room once more, a green tint taking over his pale complexion.

“You don’t look very attractive right now,” she says casually, “I bet Cho Chang is so excited to see you too…”

He flinches and freezes before shooting her a desperate, wide-eyed look. His face begins to steadily turn red.

“W-what do you mean?” he asks nervously, and they can hear the excited murmurs of children making their way by the tent and into the stadium.

“I mean,” she says slowly, as if speaking to a small child, “that if you look anything less than perfect as you fight a _dragon_ head on there’s no way she’ll ever consider going out with you.”

“Going out-“ he chokes, wheezes for a moment.

“Oh?” she asks, and Sasha mews gravely at them, “you think I didn’t notice those goo-goo eyes she sends at you every chance she gets? And how much you _love_ it?”

His face and ears are turning a steady magenta, which begins to travel to his neck, as he stares at her in something akin to horror.

“How did you-!“

“So, I suggest you get a hold of yourself,” she smirks before beginning to sweep out of the tent with a flutter of her robes, “Oh, and by the way,” she adds before she crosses the threshold “Potters got a thing for her too.”

And, as she slips into the horde of students, she can hear him spluttering and choking behind her. She lets a small smile cross her lips briefly before it disappears without a trace. One would be hard pressed to believe it was ever there at all.

She follows her fellow Hufflepuffs into the stands and grimaces when she ends up sitting next to an annoying third-year whose name she does not know. The girl sends her a nasty look and she smiles vacantly at her. The girl flinches before turning her attention forward, but not before muttering a near-silent ‘freak’ under her breath.

Rolling her eyes she lets her attention fall to the arena.

She watches a man she can only assume is one of the elder Weasley’s and a group of other wizards herd a bluish-gray Swedish Short-Snout into the pen, thick magic enhanced chains bounding its feet to the ground and a nest of large eggs centered directly in the middle of the ring. She spots a golden egg twinkling brightly in the sunlight. The beast immediately goes for the eggs and settles over them protectively, hawk eyes darting around for anything that moves and ignoring the stands completely. She can only assume that some type of magical barrier separates them from the large mystical being bellow. The small area is surrounded by large jagged boulders and dirt, and she prays silently that Diggory knows what he’s doing.

(She somehow doubts it.)

o.O.o

She’s been dwelling on the past too much.

Dwelling on things that are long done, long gone, and no longer matter.

She hadn’t realized it, but as the anniversary of her death steadily approaches her mind begins to break a little more, jagged edges piercing her skull, until it is almost impossible to differentiate reality with illusion.

Her…mother had hated these times most. Had seemed to know that something in particular was wrong with her _twisted_ not-child. She would stay away from home as often as possible during these times, going instead to take on extra hours at work, staying at friends’ houses, or not bothering to come home at all.

She wonders where the woman is now.

(But she doesn’t really care.)

o.O.o

She watches Diggory slowly make his way into the ring, eyes widening at the sight of his dragon, before he darts behind a nearby jagged rock, leaning down to do something she can’t really see. The announcer is excitedly making comments, and she tries to drown him out. The child next to her gives a girlish screech.

Diggory points his wand at a small blackish rock and seems to mutter a spell. The rock elongates, shifting colors and shades before it settles into the form of a small Labrador. Her hands clench the bottom of her hard, wooden seat desperately.

_He said that he wasn’t going to-_

The dog sneaks away from the rock and into the dragon’s direct line of sight and the dragon’s hawkish eyes narrow in on it immediately. It lets out a deep growl of warning before angling itself to be more firmly over the batch of eggs, wings flexing in an intimidating manner. The dog is nonplussed and darts forward, before stopping, obviously teasing and dragging the beast’s attention away from Diggory. Diggory himself peaks out from behind the large boulder he hides behind and digs through his robes to pull out a small, square-ish black vial.

The students around her chitter and twitter in excitement, angling forward for a better view, and she tries not to feel too irritated. She can barely see what’s happening herself.

Diggory downs the vial in one smooth motion, and she watches, heart in her throat, as he steadily begins to disappear. A barely visible outline is all that is left of his form, and the girl next to her gasps in surprise.

She feels something like pride fill her as Sasha rubs against her stomach happily. She lets her fingers run through the cat’s soft fur as she calms her racing heart.

The students fall into a hush around her, all of them trying to pinpoint Diggory’s location, and not even a rock is displaced to give away his coordinates as the dog continues barking and running around madly. The dragon seems to be more on edge as each moment passes, and lets out a small, warning flame. The dog backs away, but doesn’t stop antagonizing the mystical beast. She can see the Golden Egg twitching from its place among the real ones, and grips Sasha harshly. The dragon doesn’t seem to notice.

The egg begins floating and steadily making its way away from the dragon, and she feels relief steadily beginning a gentle tempo in her heart.

Placing her hand over her chest, she lets out a small sigh.

Suddenly, the dragon tenses, freezes, before its head whips towards Diggory’s position and the students around her gasp in fear. The egg freezes, and the dragon spends a long moment studying the strange anomaly. It takes a step forward, nostrils flaring angrily and intimidatingly, before it stops abruptly and tilts its head.

The arena is dead silent, all eyes fixed on the spectacle, before the dragon lets out a fierce, loud, roar.

It flares its wings, the sharp spiky edges forcing a loud ear-piercing whistle to travel through the air, before darting forward, fire on its lips, and–

o.O.o

\- It’s true – Victoria Dodger was in love once upon a life, a deep, twisted love full of only pain and hate.

But…she gave up on that love long ago.

Perhaps, before it began? She doesn’t think their love really had a beginning – she knows it never had an end.

She has learned to move on from _that_ , from him, and even when she was still…alive…she didn’t dwell on it, on him, too much.

She loved him, the person he _was,_ and it took her a very, _very_ long time to see the person he became. Even so, she loved him. Stayed with him.

Her brother was angry, so very, _very_ angry, that she would stay with such a person, _love_ such a person, and it often brought them to harsh, cruel, words and long nights full of tears. Her parents…never knew of her situation – and most certainly her sister never did either. She couldn’t put that kind of stress on them.

She had tried to keep it a secret, had tried to hide the bruises and pain and hate, but her brother knew her too well. It would only make sense he’d notice.

And, although they fought like cats and dogs, had even devolved into fists and _cops,_ she was so, _so_ thankful that he noticed…that he cared.

She wishes she could have told him before she-

She wishes she hadn’t been so _stupid,_ and _childish,_ and-

She just wishes…

She could have said thank you and-

Goodbye.

o.O.o

She slips through the tent unseen and avoids the flurry of mediwitches and wizards scrambling around her, moving around them to settle at the side of a small bed, heart racing in her throat and sweat dancing down her face.

On it lays Diggory, eyes closed, resting peacefully, bandages and thick fabric hiding away the scorched, red flesh that now comprises of the entirety of the left side of his body. It would heal, yes, but that doesn’t dispel the gravity of the situation. It was only pure luck, and Quidditch reflexes, that stopped him from being burnt into a smoldering, charred crisp. As it was, he suffered severe nerve damage and it would take weeks before he would even come close to the motor functions her previously wielded.

She…made things worse.

This is why she-

Why did she have to go and-

He opens his eyes and grins tiredly at her.

“Told you I wouldn’t die,” he says weakly and she scowls at him, valiantly ignoring the lump in her throat.

“Just about did though, didn’t you?” she mutters instead, and rubs Sasha’s head firmly as the cat meows sadly and nudges Diggory’s hand.

“How many points did I get?” he asks, voice raspy, and she bites back a scalding remark on the stupidity of this Tournament, at the stupidity of _him-_

“40, in total,” she drawls, ignores the wide-eyed amazed look he sends her, and continues, “for a unique and well-thought out plan, as well as how closely you came to sneaking away with the egg without the dragon noticing. They were going to reduce points for the burns-“ she can’t stop her flinch as she says this, “-but ultimately decided that your bravery in the face of danger, fast reflexes, and determination to finish your task made up for it.”

She thought it was a load of shit, personally, and would love to have a nice, private chat with whoever organized this particular task.

This also put him in a tie with Krum and Potter, whose actions had been the same from the book to a T.

(She hadn’t bothered remembering Fleur’s score.)

She wasn’t sure how she felt about this.

She had a feeling it was despair.

“Man, I’m pretty beaten up, aren’t I?” he asks rhetorically and she snorts derisively.

“You have no one to blame but yourself,” she says, “you should have accounted for your scent as well as the Golden Eggs visibility…speaking of-“

She pulls the small parcel situated on her shoulder down and digs around, reaching for the bright gold object. She presents it to Diggory and Sasha bats at it curiously.

“Your prize,” she drawls.

His eyes are wide as he struggles to sit up, pulling the large object into his lap and letting his good hand caress the smooth surface. His fingers find the notch holding it together at the top and she eyes him warily.

“Have you opened it yet?” he asks and she scoots away from him.

“I suggest you don’t,” she says dryly, but he isn’t listening and eagerly begins twisting the latch. She casts a wordless charm that mutes all nearby sound on herself and Sasha, and watches in great amusement as a look of abject horror crawls onto Diggory face and he clutches his ears. All movement in the room stops as the occupants turn towards the loud sound, cringing and holding their sensitive ears, and Diggory reaches for the egg desperately before clanging it closed and locking the latch. Eyeing the look of relief now settled on his face, she lets the charm fade and Sasha looks around curiously, head tilted and ears twitching.

“I warned you,” she says and he sends her a disgruntled scowl.

“No you didn’t,” he mutters crossly and she rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a child.”

“I’m older than you!”

“That doesn’t mean you’re more mature.”

“You-!”

Looking back, she can honestly say that that’s one of the happiest moments she’s ever had. Can say that she doesn’t regret her choices, that she found something like-

Too bad it wasn’t enough.

o.O.o

With a firm scolding, she leaves Diggory in the capable hands of Madam Pomfrey (who asked if she needed more potions…she said yes,) and headed to her dorms for some much needed rest. Sasha settles on her shoulder, purring happily, and she takes a moment to just breathe in the crisp night’s air.

o.O.o

There was fire _everywhere_ , screaming and screeching echoing throughout her ears, and she feels herself rising to her feet distantly. The girl next to her was dead silent, eyes wide and mouth gaping, and she feels herself stumble as she takes in the bloody scene that is now the First Tasks arena.

Diggory was lying down, flat on his back, skin and blood running down his body in a messy stream, a copper tang was in the air, and the dragon was screeching angrily at the wizards who were attempting to force it back. She watches Diggory sit up, bring a bloody, _broken unfamiliar_ appendage to the side of his head and shake unevenly. He stumbles to his feet, reaches for the Golden Egg, and starts limping towards the exit of the arena. She can feel tears stinging her eyes. Around her, the students yell and scream their support, cheering him on, and she hates them so much-

He passes the barrier shakily, stumbling and tripping the whole way, and turns his attention to the stadium. His eyes find hers and he smiles before pitching forward and-

She feels the world end.

o.O.o

Seeing Diggory like that…had been something of an eye opener. It had been startling, sobering, and that was the moment when she truly realized how important he’s become to her, how much his life-

She still doesn’t want to change things.

She doesn’t want to become involved.

But-

She doesn’t want him to die.

o.O.o

The next week passes in something of a lull. Without Diggory there to abide some of the boredom, she finds herself wandering the halls listlessly, hiding in nooks and cranny and rethinking her existence.

She has a nightmare-

o.O.o

_He’s there-_

_Silent and wandering, dead eyes focused on a dead man, and she sees the_ emptiness _in him – the death breaking away pieces of his soul one by one, slowly, steadily – and she feels fear and horror and anger-_

_She let this happen, watched him walk into that maze and watched Potter bring his body back out – saw the green envelope his being, the life leaving his eyes, saw his soul being stolen from his body, and it’s all her fault, all her fault-_

Red-red eyes stare into her soul, maniacal laughter on _its_ lips, and she knows it did this – it killed him, she would-

_And when she wakes, the world had ended._

o.O.o

She rushes through the halls, breath harried and hair in disarray, a black robe pulled tight over her form as she sweeps through the halls silently, a mere ghost in the long corridors. A small cat dashes after her, jumping from ledges and spires, and its unearthly eyes track her progress clinically.

She has a destination in mind – something she must do, and if she doesn’t reach it soon she’ll-

But she sees it coming ahead, large door elegantly carved with lions and snakes and all manner of animal, and she pulls the door open without a thought – so rushed and desperate to fulfill her task, to make sure-

As she comes into the limelight she slows to a stop, eyes darting across the many beds in panic, searching desperately for what she knows should be here and-

She sees him, tall form silhouetted by the moonlight and relief floods through her veins, makes her body weak as he turns towards her, startled. She collapses on the ground and clutches her robe close, silent _‘thank you’s_ on her lips, and he rushes towards her hurriedly. He kneels before her and grabs her shoulders, angling her upward so he can see what’s wrong.

She looks at him; face twisted brokenly, and heart clenching so harshly it _hurts._ He looks confused, panicked, _frightened,_ and she can feel the beginnings of tears dripping down her face.

“I don’t want-“ She somehow forces out, knees weak and aching and scraped from where she collapsed on the floor, and her hands come up to grip the front of his robe harshly.

“W-wha-“ he begins, flabbergasted, and she punches him weakly in the arm.

“I don’t want you to die,” she sobs out, eyes clenching closed from the force of her tears, her grief, and his grip on her arms tightens.

“Please don’t-“ she cries silently, hiccupping (curse her young body), “you’re all I have left..!”

She feels a sigh run through his body before he’s twisting them so he’s hugging her properly, the both of them settled on the dirty dusty floor, as he pats her head lightly. _As if she was a child._

(A part of her feels pleased.)

“I’m not going to die,” he tells her evenly, “we’ll get through this.”

They spend the rest of the night like that, her sitting brokenly on the floor, and him trying to pick up the pieces. She doesn’t tell him anything, not what caused her sudden outburst, or what she knows will happen, and she is content like this.

_‘I want to get better,’_ she doesn’t tell him.

_‘I want to learn how to care,’_ she doesn’t say.

But he seems to understand all the same.

o.O.o

\- Victoria Dodger was a broken person, an unwanted person, that could never be fixed. Not fully, anyway.

A part of her had been so relieved by her death – by the release she had gained from it – and she hated herself _so much_ for it.

Even now, a small, _miniscule,_ part of her is happy to be away from everything _that_ life did to her, but…she still misses her family. She still wants to go back.

If she was given the choice, she would leave this world in a _heartbeat._

She still plans on not becoming involved.

She is _not_ going to help The-Boy-Who-Lived in his efforts to defeat the Dark Lord _whatsoever._

But…she won’t let the only thing she has left in this world be destroyed all the same.

She’ll protect what she holds dear.

And she’ll _kill_ whoever gets in her way.

\- But now, she wants to try.


	7. Desperately

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to be going on Hiatus for a while. Don’t worry, it’s not permanent! It’s just while I visit my family in Michigan for the summer, however – no one out there has internet connection, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Probably sometime in August. I’ve hear my cousin has a hotspot in his home, but I’m not sure if I’ll get the chance to update while there. So, until then, this will be my last update on any of my stories. 
> 
> Also, I may or may not be trash for my own stories and went ahead and drew a little sketch sheet of how I would like to imagine Victoria. It’s not exactly colored, but I had fun drawing it. If you’re interested please check it out! Here's the link - http://blackdeviouserose.deviantart.com/art/Victoria-Dodger-601958303

“Mother,” she calls out quietly, eyes narrowed in that tired dead way of hers and small body curled in on itself, “what’s for dinner?”

Her mother flinches, a painful thing, and turns towards her mechanically, a bottle of pills falling from her grasp and bright whiteness spreading across the floor.

She looks at them blankly and turns her eyes up towards her mother expectantly.

The woman is flushed and panicked, pupils blown wide, and her hands shaking a nervous tune.

It isn’t any of her business what the woman does in her spare time.

“T-there’s some leftover pork in the fridge,” the elder says distantly, reaching for the pills and scooping them back in the bottle, “heat that up.”

“Very well mother,” she replies politely, turning on her heel and stalking through the rundown house, plaster falling apart in some places and carpet torn in others.

“I’m going out,” the woman calls at her back, a raspy, broken noise; “I’ll be back in the morning.”

She pauses in the kitchen, shrugs her shoulders, and continues on her way. She looks through the fridge, finds the pork, and drags it out. A bright container catches her attention and she tugs at it boredly.

‘The Best Butterscotch Fudge You’ll Ever Find!’ the golden container parrots at her happily, and she can’t stop the angry scowl from overtaking her face, the memories from assaulting her and-

_‘Butterscotch is gross; I don’t know how you can eat it.’_

She pushes the container back sharply, slams the fridge, and stalks towards her small, dimly lit room.

_‘Come on! Butterscotch is the best. I don’t know how you can eat all that cinnamon candy…’_

Her mother freezes when she sees her, terror reflecting in her large milky eyes, and she only feels more anger at the injustice of it all.

_‘It’s better than butterscotch that’s for sure. That stuffs way too sweet.’_

Feels wretched despair tug at her consciousness, never-ending longing welling in her being, and she tries not to hate it all-

_‘Dear sister, there is no such thing as ‘too sweet’.’_

She passes the mirror, sees milky skin and bright hair, a vague flash of dead eyes and the smallness of a child’s body.

_‘The hell there isn’t. You’re going to get diabetes one day, you know that right?’_

She looks again and this time-

_‘Ahh, yes, but I don’t think I could ever be happier if I had diabetes.’_

Deeply tanned skin coupled with dark hair, vivid green eyes and the round softness that comes with a _woman’s_ body, smells the salt on her skin and the ocean in her hair, feels warmth and comfort and-

_A snort, ‘do you_ want _to die?’_

Coldness, and plaster, and cement, the sound of birds fighting over food, and the sight of bright hair pulled back in a ponytail, milk white skin bringing out the vividness of it, dead eyes looking at _nothing._

_‘We both know I’m going to live longer than you. There’s no way I’d lose in that.’_

She collapses to her knees, sits before the mirror, fingers outstretched and tracing the echoes of a face long gone, feels tears begin to drip down her face.

_‘Yeah right! You’re on buddy. There’s no way in hell I’d die before you.’_

Nothing

o.O.o

She doesn’t know what to do.

Plans, thoughts, feelings, all of it just – thrown out the window.

She had been adamant in her refusal to help, to, become _involved –_ because she couldn’t, she just _couldn’t,_ not after everything she’d been through, not after – she had hoped and prayed to just be overlooked, to be _forgotten_ and then she could move on, leave this to the so-called ‘heroes’ and pretend that maybe, just maybe, it was all a dream. Pretend nothing is real, not even herself, and simply…fade.

She’s made her choice, has decided to protect the only thing that now matters to her, and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

_Keep her head down, play her cards right, don’t. get. involved._

Honestly, it should’ve been easy. It shouldn’t have-

Ended like this.

And so, here she was, a broken girl in a broken world with a broken mind and a twisted heart.

She watches Diggory learn to reuse his right hand, his entire arm, and tries not to resent him. She can see the determination on his face, the refusal to give up, and she can’t help but hate him for not hating the Tournament. For not seeing what it _truly_ is and being so-

Blind.

_Naïve._

But, she can say nothing and so she merely watches him silently, helps him when he needs it and desperately tries to push the awful feeling of _guiltguiltguilt_ away. She wants to leave.

Wants so desperately to leave, to just- flee. She had made plans, had mapped out what she was going to do and how she was going to-

It doesn’t matter anymore.

Just this one year, her mind whispered frightfully.

Next year will be different.

Diggory won’t need her then, he won’t-

(Be in danger-)

(Die?)

Next year _Hogwarts_ won’t need her, and she can once again slip into nothingness, can hide away from the evils this world had to offer.

She tells him one day, tells him of her plans to run, to flee, to just…disappear.

He looks sad and-

Desperate? But not surprised. Never surprised.

Because Victoria Dodger is a strange girl, even in this strange world, and he understands that she’s _different,_ understands that there are some things he simply can’t know _._ Can’t comprehend. Because she’s _wrong,_ and _off,_ and _strange_ and this world truly has no need for her.

Has no place to fit her in its folds.

She will always be off, will always stick out in a strange jagged way that can’t be hidden – with her bright hair and deaddead eyes, her broken mind and dull soul – and she will never truly _want_ to fit. Will always long for things not there and mourn for things long gone.

It’s become a never ending pattern, a cycle of sorts, that she’s not sure will ever be broken- not sure if she _wants_ to be broken. A pattern of wants and regrets, of bitterness and cynical thoughts, a thin edge of there and _not._

She often thinks she’s going mad with it-

(Her heads is killing her lately, too, a never ceasing pounding and sometimes she can barely remember her name- not, of course, _her_ name, but _her_ name, her true, real one if that makes any sense.)

The potions Pomfrey gave her have…helped, grudgingly, but she more often than not finds herself hiding them away where she’ll forget they are and steadfastly ignoring their very existence.

(Denial is a powerful thing, she finds, and through denial she finds herself doing things she would otherwise never _dream_ of, ignoring things that keep her sane – keep her _safe.)_

Diggory hasn’t seemed to notice, so caught up in the tournament, in staying _alive,_ he is. She knows she should help, knows she should push aside her mounting fear and discomfort – his death is approaching fast, so very _fast,_ and with it comes – should hold true to her self-promise. But it’s hard.

What if she-

What if she…messes up again?

Diggory’s injuries should not have been nearly as bad as they were, should not have nearly killed and _crippled_ him, and it is only with her interference that it has…

So, for now, she would leave this to him, would put her _faith_ and _trust_ in him because, honestly, what else can she do?

(What else _can_ she do..?)

o.O.o

“Tell me about your family,” he tells her one day, after having spent hours upon hours in the library to no fruition, to no _answers,_ and she is momentarily startled.

She feels her breath quicken, her pulse race, and she settles a hand on Sasha as she takes a steadying inhale.

“Why do you want to know?” she asks, falsely airy, and he shoots her a quick, disarming grin.

“Well, you know,” he shrugs, “I’m always talking about myself, so I figured I’d like to know more about you.”

They’re both settled in the sunny common room, chattering voices surrounding them, and he moves so his heads settled in his hands, body stretched across the warm floor languidly. She herself is curled in an armchair situated directly under a window, strange potted plants surrounding her on all sides.

He looks at her expectantly.

She takes a moment to weigh her options, fingers stroking idly through dark fur, and decides to take a chance.

“Well,” she starts slowly, eyes turned down towards a book situated on the table in front of her, “I have two wonderful parents, for starters.”

He nods his head, a bobbing thing, and she can see the smile tugging his lips, crinkling his eyes. She tries not to flush in embarrassment.

She never – was – good at talking about herself.

(She’s forgotten how to boast about her family-)

“I have a twin, too,” she tells him quietly, “a brother, and he’s the best I could ever hope for. I couldn’t imagine life wit-“

She cuts herself off, glances sharply out the window, and Sasha meows comfortingly. Diggory sends her a concerned look and she tries to assure him, silently, that she’s fine.

“I have a little sister,” she continues, eyes once more turning towards her cat, “a wonderful sister. I’m the only one of my family who knows magic, but she-“

She takes a breath, “she’s always believed and loved it – even before I,” another cutoff, “She told me once that if she were to go to Hogwarts she would love nothing more than to be in Hufflepuff.”

He grins at her, a wide thing, and she feels an answering tug of her own lips.

“How old is she?” he asks.

“Right now..?” She trails off for a moment, thinking back, _trying_ to remember, and finds she can’t. When she had died, she-

“8,” she says, desperately, praying for it to be true, “she’s…8.”

Diggory doesn’t seem to notice her melancholy, her fear, and she tries to focus back on what he’s saying.

“Well then there’s hope for her yet!” he tells her cheerily, “She might be able to do magic still, she just doesn’t know it yet.”

He obviously means to be comforting, but his words only bring her more sadness, more-

“No,” she says, “no, she won’t.”

He freezes for a moment, avoiding her eyes, and quickly rushes to change the conversation, to stop the impending _deathdeathdeath_ she knows he can feel and-

“Tell me more,” he says.

So she does.

o.O.o

“Do you mind if I sit next to you?” she hears a voice quietly call out, and she can’t stop the wince when she recognizes it immediately.

“I do, actually,” she replies without looking up from her book.

(She’s starting to hate them a little.)

“Um, r-right…” the other replies, obviously not having expected that answer, and with a sigh she looks up to glance around the room.

It’s filled to the brim with girls, she realizes, girls that weren’t there when she first entered the library. She must have zoned out.

Diggory had come to her, finally, begging for her help with practical tears in his eyes as he explained that he couldn’t figure out the bloody golden egg – not on his own, at least. She had sighed, told him she’d look in the library, and tried not to fall prey to the _guiltguiltguilt_ that had consumed her.

He needed-

He needed to figure this out on his own.

Blinking her eyes, she focuses her thoughts on her current position, notices Victor Krum trying to glumly hide behind a stack of books as the girls around him giggle and coo. Madam Pince looks murderous, but because she couldn’t throw them all out of the library she settles for swooping down on the girls who were particularly noisy.

With another sigh she pushes her stack of books to the side and motions for the other girl to settle next to her.

“Thank you,” the girl replies somewhat reverently, relief heavy in her voice, “I didn’t think I’d ever find a place to sit.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs, turns back towards her book and hopes that that’s where the conversation ends.

It isn’t.

“About what you said the other day…” the girl trails off, tugs on her lip with her teeth, “well, I was just wondering-“

“What is it Ms. Granger?” she drawls out after the other paused for too long, looking up from her book to give the girl an unimpressed look.

“Call me Hermione, please,” Granger replies somewhat distractedly as she bats away an airplane scrawled with hearts and little love notes that was originally headed for Krum’s lonely table, but instead found itself butting into the older girls bushy head. She can hear a few girls hissing at each other angrily somewhere to the left, and struggles not to hex them.

“Anyway,” Granger turned towards her sharply after having finally managed to destroy the offending piece of paper, “I was just wondering…are you two close, is all?”

She feels her eyebrows rise against her will, surprised by the question.

“I suppose,” she replies quietly, “in a way.”

“Right,” Granger nods briskly.

A long moment of silence passes, the chattering of the girls slowly rising in volume until Madam Pince was rounding on them all, spitting practical fire.

“Why did you want to know, exactly?” she asks as she ignores the group of girl’s fearful whimpers.

Hermione looks concerned as she silently tugs a few of her own books closer towards her, dragging her eyes away from the sight to focus on her.

Hermione pauses considering, obviously weighing her answers, and it takes her a moment to figure out why-

She keeps forgetting, stupidly, forgetting just how…young, this body of hers is.

Because she herself feels-

Old. Unimaginably old.

To these people, to these _children,_ she is just a child. She is no more than 11 and she _must_ have a young naïve mind because on top of that she’s _muggleborn._ To them she’s…

Nothing more than a child playing at being an adult.

(It’s hilarious, really, when it’s actually the other way around.)

She tries not to dwell on it and looks at Granger expectantly.

“I was just curious is all,” the Gryffindor smiles, “I noticed you didn’t really hang around…the others your age.”

“I see,” she replies evenly, finally closing her book and tugging another out of the pile.

Several moments of silence passes, the both of them focusing on their respective studies, and she feels something like peace settle over the unusually noisy room.

She is overcome with an urge-

An urge to say something, to utter words and phrases meant for no one’s ears but her own, an urge to-

Explain.

She’s always been somewhat clever, at least she _thought_ so, and knows when and when not to listen to her urges and this time-

“You see,” she says, “Diggory is…he’s…”

She struggles for a moment, searching desperately for words that can convey just _what_ exactly Diggory is, how-

How-

“He’s,” she says, desperate passion in her voice, “he’s…all I’ve got…”

She falls silent, clenches her fingers, looks down at her book, and wishes – desperately – for something, for-

Anything.

“And because of that I.”

She stops again, glances at Granger and silently cringes at the concerned passion in the other’s eyes, because this girl…this _child,_ seems so concerned for her wellbeing when in reality-

“I don’t want him to die.” She finished lamely, “and I know, with Potter involved…he will.”

Granger looks surprised, somewhat angry, and opens her mouth, fierce passionate fire on her tongue and-

“Deny it all you like,” she interrupts smoothly, “but where that boy is involved trouble is sure to follow and Diggory…”

She closes her book, reaches for a new one, and begins to rifle through its thick pages, parchment heavy in the air and Granger’s eyes dart down distractedly.

“Diggory doesn’t deserve that,” she finishes, letting her own dark eyes trail over the Latin words.

Granger closes her mouth, purses her lips, and nods. She can see the disapproval, the disagreement, in the other’s eyes, but Granger seems willing to entertain her for now. To let her think what she wants.

The rest of their time in the library is spent silently, the turning of pages and the giggling of girls their only company.

o.O.o

“It’s the black lake,” he gasps, pale, and sweaty, and _panicked,_ and she feels a vague flash of déjà vu before she stomps it down to look up and give him her attention.

“Oh really,” she drawls out, “that’s interesting.”

Then she turns back towards her long, thick piece of parchment and continues to scrawl out the 36 different uses for wormwood and its properties. Diggory collapses opposite her with a dramatic groan of pain and displeasure.

“I don’t know what to do,” he wails miserably, “an entire hour under the black lake? I’ll never make it…”

He straightens up then, pushing himself up to look at her desperately-

“You’re good at charms aren’t you Victoria?” he asks her, attempts to take her shoulders in his hands but is warded off with an irritable glare, “you’re the best I know…you’ve gotta know something!”

“Use a bubblehead charm,” she says shortly, rolling up her parchment and carefully placing it in her parcel, capped inkbottle next to go in.

He looks startled, somewhat surprised, before a wide smile spreads across his face.

“You’re brilliant Victoria!” He told her reverently before suddenly darting off.

She watches him go with lidded eyes and sighs as she finishes packing her stuff and leaves the common room.

She didn’t know what he’d do without her.

o.O.o

It was well known that Victoria Dodger couldn’t stand her fellow students – in fact, the level of animosity and annoyance she felt towards them was always surprisingly high at all times, however, lately she found herself more irritated than usual.

No matter where she went, no matter how she tried to hide way, she found herself forced to listen to the awed and reverent squeals of her fellow females, found herself victim to the annoyed groans and grumblings of the males.

It was horrible.

She found herself hexing more and more students on a daily business without even a shred of guilt, found herself wanting, viciously, to just outright attack the annoying children.

A ball, she heard the students chattering, they were having a ball! Only those of 4th year and above were permitted to go and she’s never found herself more _grateful_ for her young body.

(She never really thought she’d _ever_ think that.)

Teenagers were _dreadful._

Diggory was dreadful.

The only company with him she found were love-struck sighs and never-ending glum monologues about how beautiful Cho was, how amazing she was, and how she’d _never_ want to go out with him.

She wanted to rip her hair out.

Better yet-

She wanted to rip _his_ hair out.

“Just ask her out,” she finds herself grinding out, annoyance and irritability and _insanity_ thrumming through her veins.

She’s had just about enough of this ball nonsense.

“I don’t know,” he moans out sadly, “you’re a girl…maybe you can ask her what she thinks of me?”

She slams her book closed with a loud snap and glares up at him.

“Are you a 12 year old girl?” she spits, Sasha hissing lightly beside her, feeding off her anger.

Today hasn’t been a good day.

Snape has been paying an unusual amount of attention to her and it-

Has her on edge.

Upon turning in her long scroll of parchment that was homework the previous day, he had stared at her for a long, silent moment. She had resolutely kept her eyes away from his own, dark fear thrumming though her veins and seizing her heart in an icy grip and she could feel the loose edges of sanity slipping away from her grasp, sliding through her fingers until the only thing she could focus on was _get out._

“Thank you very much Ms. Dodger,” he had drawled out in that strange dark tone of his, eyes boring into her very soul and she couldn’t-

“Yes sir,” she had somehow managed to rasp out, eyes pointed downward towards her toes and-

She had fled as soon as possible, had ran and ran until she found herself in her dark little room that smelled of mildew and listening to the soothing sounds of her brothers soft voice. Her fear, however, had disrupted her magic, had made it so hard to control and she found herself-

Found herself missing her brother’s voice, his face, and she could barely move for an hour, so caught up in a dead illusion she was.

That fear still wasn’t gone, spurred on by the students talking and muttering of _balls_ and _dances_ and _the second task._

She takes a deep breath, focuses on Diggory, and tries not to hex him when she sees that stupid, idiotic gloomy frown deepening at her answer.

“What do I do?” he whines, drawing out the last syllable in an annoying manner.

She snaps.

Grabbing his ear and tugging him to his feet, she drags him through the common room, much to the amusement of the other Hufflepuffs, and into the halls. She drags and pulls him, ignores his pained yelping in favor of tugging him ever harder.

“Victoria-!” he shouts, “What are-what are you doing?”

“Taking care of a headache,” she mutters.

She stops his attempts to escape her grasp with a simple wave of her wand, freezing him momentarily and forcing him to start his struggles anew.

She drags him around corners and through rooms, down the staircase, and through long corridors until she found herself at her destination.

She hoped the person she was looking for was here as she drags him through the doors, slapping away his tugging hands and giving him a warning glare.

For his ears sake, at least.

Letting her eyes rove around the room, she finds the Ravenclaw she was looking for and marched towards her.

The older girl didn’t seem to notice.

Stopping directly in front of the others table, she ignored the bewildered stares thrown at her in favor of hissing out a few words.

“Hello,” she says mock-politely, “Diggory here-“ she give him a harsh shake and ignores the pained whimper he provides, “has something very important he’d like to tell you.”

She drops him with a muffled thump and turns on her heel, stalking out of the Great Hall with flourish.

“H-hello Cedric,” she hears Cho smile behind her.

Hopefully this will end this…romance business that’s been going around.

One more year.

o.O.o

“What are you doing for Christmas break?” Diggory asks her unnaturally cheerfully as he spreads a disgusting amount of molasses on his toast and forks an egg onto her plate.

She wrinkles her nose and slips her fingers into her parcel, tugging out a bright red potion and slipping it into her drink with a disgruntled frown.

Diggory pretends not to notice.

She’s been avoiding the potions, has been pretending they don’t exist, has-

(Given up?)

She would need it today, though.

She could feel it.

“I’m going to…” she trails off, unsure of what exactly to tell him and he fills her silence for her.

“Visit your family?”

She nods, and he laughs, pointing his spoon in her direction.

“I figured you’d say that,” he says, “you really love them. I can tell.”

“Yeah,” she replies quietly, “I do.”

She isn’t sure what she’ll do over break.

She certainly doesn’t want to remain here.

Maybe-

Maybe she’ll head to the Leaky Cauldron and see if she can nab herself a room in return for work? She’ll need somewhere to stay while she looks for a home.

That is, of course, if anyone is willing to hire an 11 year old.

She sighs, tugs her fingers through her hair – which now reaches down the half of her back – and tries to drag back the annoyance, which has become ever increasing lately.

A loud clatter drags her attention, and she winces as she sees Diggory’s disappointed stare aimed at his fallen spoon.

His arms gotten a lot better, but it still has its…problems.

She says nothing and turns back towards her breakfast.

“Tell me how the ball goes, alright?” she asks him, tugging Sasha away from another student’s plate, and looking up at him with a quick glance.

“Right,” he smiles, a nervous thing, before suddenly leaning forward to address her with a whisper.

“W-what should I do?” he flushes at her unimpressed stare and hurries on to explain, “At the ball I mean. What if I mess up, or Cho doesn’t like me, or, oh god, what if-“

She cuts him off with a sharp motion of her hand, and his mouth closes with a snap.

“I,” she says as calmly as she can, “am not dealing with this.”

Then she grabs her stuff and _flees._

“Victoria-!” she hears him call out, rustling and cursing accompanying him as he falls out of his seat in a rush to follow her, “Vitoria, wait!”

She twists her wand and more cursing follows as his legs twist themselves together and his skin turns into a bright polka-dot purple.

Like hell she was enduring anymore of _that._

o.O.o

She steadily packed what she knew she would need, paper, quills, ink, clothes, brushes, her basic necessities in a silent and brisk manner.

Her dorm room was empty for once, and she quickly packs her brightly colored potions before anyone comes in.

It was time for her to leave, to take the train and-

Find somewhere.

Anywhere.

Just-

Away from here.

The year was going by so fast she – she wasn’t really prepared for it. For it all to end.

(A part of her desperately can’t wait for it, just wants it all to. End.)

She wrote a quick note explaining where she was to Diggory and charmed it to fly towards him as soon as he awoke.

Gathering her small cat into her arms, she gave the furry animals ears a quick tug and set off towards the Castles entrance.

She had a long few days ahead of her.

Hopefully she’d make it through.

o.O.o

_The second task approaches ever closer it, and with it she loses more bits of her sanity, loses-_


	8. Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyhey, what's up!  
> it's been a while huh? i was on vacation over the summer visiting family! i'm finally back, thank goodness, and am more excited than ever for Halloween~~ my favorite holiday of course. I hope you guys have a safe one out there!  
> Kind of off topic, but I went ahead and made a tumblr for my fanfiction stories where you can ask me pretty much anything. i'll post updates on the progress of my stories and occasionally post art as well. i hope you drop by!  
> http://dev-fiction.tumblr.com/

-She took it for granted.

She rolls her eyes when her mother scolds her for not helping in the kitchen like her brother, pushes red peppers and onions into her hands with firm orders of-

_“Start chopping!”_

_“Mama,”_ she whines, petulantly, like a child, and her brother snaps a towel at her, _“you know I’m no good at this! Let me do the spices instead.”_

And her mother, her dear sweet mother, scowls and forces her hands onto her plump hips with a _“you’ll never get better that way! Practice, practice my child! This is the only way you will learn.”_

And she whines and begs and does anything she can to get out of it, but by the end of the day, with a fresh meal and a growing stomach, she would smile and laugh because all of that hard work was worth it.

To see her mother smile with pride, to teach her little sister how to properly wash the dishes, and sit out on the porch with her father and brother-

Yeah. It was all really, really worth it.

And she knows that when tomorrow comes they’ll repeat the process over again, the whining and begging and chopping, and she smiles.

She turns and-

There’s nothing there.

..?

The ground crumbles beneath her and she is filled with an absolute clarity.

o.O.o

“Do we have ourselves a deal?” she hears herself say calmly, smoothly, and the hunched man before her leans over his wooden counter to look down on her from his one, beady eye.

“Well, little missy,” the man sighs, tugs his fingers through his greasy gray hair, and shoots her a grin full of sharp rotten teeth and fishy breath, “I think we do.”

She resists the urge to recoil when he holds out one bony hand for her to shake, and gives him a withering glare. The man flinches, but holds out his hand resolutely, and she ignores her instinct to simply turn her back and walk away, choosing instead to reach out and shake it. There’s an electric taste in the air that she can’t ignore, and she feels Sasha hissing from her place in her hood.

“Remember our terms and conditions,” she warns with narrowed eyes and sweeps her way up to the next level of the dank little shop.

It was hard, she found, to find a place willing to hire an 11 year old. She wasn’t necessarily _surprised,_ just…annoyed. She spent the past week looking desperately for a place that would hire her in return for room and board and found herself coming up painfully short. Every shop and store owner she spoke to only gave her pitying glances or stern lectures on the dangers of running away from home, and more often than not she found herself thrown out of the shop or being threatened with a call to the aurors. It was only after a long debating moment that she found herself skulking across the desolate and dark streets of Knockturn Alley, fitting in surprisingly well with the hooded and quiet people that called the smelly place home. She found it hilarious.

It was only after desperation and panic had set in that she had even considered entering the tall and gloomy shop set in a shadowy corner of the alley. It was only after hours upon hours had passed, after the sun started to make its shaky descent from the sky and the stars threatened to light her path that she made her regretful choice. She had entered warily, wand held loosely in her fingers and curses on the tip of her tongue, stalking around until this… _man_ came out of the gloom to glare down upon her. She didn’t really want to be here. This place was-

Was too-

Too.

Close to the plot.

“Borgin and Burkes huh?” she mutters to Sasha as she throws her parcel down upon her new not-bed. The blanket was scratchy and smelled thickly of cigarette smoke and animal fur. She holds back a cough and wrinkles her nose.

It was fine for now.

This was only temporary – only until she could find safe passage to what she hopes will be her new home; her home away from this…

Mess.

It would all pass without her interference. Eventually.

Falling face first onto her bed, she lets out an exhausted sigh and eyes one of the stoppers poking out from her bag.

Sasha mews and sits before her, tail flicking back and forth irritably.

“We’ll go back to Hogwarts tomorrow,” she promises the feline.

Sasha mews again and leans forward to nudge her face against her nose.

o.O.o

Tomorrow turns into ‘a week from now’ as she’s shown how to work the shop – how to swindle people into buying shitty objects for ridiculous prices, how to look after said objects, how to _properly_ clean the shop without getting herself cursed, and how to tell a certain customer from another. It was surprisingly hard work, and by the end of each day, as she collapses into her musky cigarette bed and works out the kinds in her neck, rubs down the aches in her arms and legs, she feels something like _satisfaction_ tug at her consciousness.

She felt like she was-

She was _doing_ something. Like she wasn’t just sitting on her ass and hoping for a change, wasn’t just staring out at the world and watching it pass by without her.

Even if almost all of the items that pass through the shop were stolen or dark artifacts that would kill her if she were to touch it with her bare hands-

She still felt somehow – good.

It was a strange feeling-

A strange sense of happiness.

(And, somehow, that only made her feel worse.)

o.O.o

“Welcome to Borgin and Burkes,” she says drolly without looking up from her thick and dusty tomb, “how may I assist you today?”

“I’m looking for a very specific item,” a smooth voice utters out, something like a superior lilt lost in its midst.

She stops herself from flinching – magma running thick through her veins, sound death shrouding every inch of who she is, and she is lost, _so, so lost –_ and glances up as casually as she can while her heart is racing a mile a minute and fear thrums heavy through the marrow of her bones.

“May I ask what this item might be, exactly?” she questions, reaching under her desk to collect her records book and studiously not looking at the scowling boy next to her speaker.

This was-

Bad. Very bad.

She just had to get them out of here as fast as possible. That was the only way.

“A necklace,” he says, and she nods her head to show she’s listening, “an Opal necklace with a particularly… _curious_ magical history.”

Code for ‘cursed’.

“I see,” she says, flipping through the pages quickly to the necklace section and praying that what he’s looking for is there – no matter how morbidly familiar the necklace sounded, no matter how her heart wishes to beat out of her chest, or how her blood sings a song of death and fear – so that he could just leave already.

Letting her finger trail down the thick parchment, her eyes flicking over each item and its description, she finally comes to a stop several pages in, nails tracing out the ink letters so embedded in the books flesh.

“Ah,” she says, tilting her head up politely and closing her book with a snap, “please wait here for a moment.”

The man barely spares her a glance, nose upturned in a fashion that states just how _superior_ he is to her. She tries not to flinch, shoves her book under the desk, and turns on her heel.

Then she’s slipping through the employee’s door and up the separate set of stairs sectioned off for easy travel of workers to the second floor. Her heart beats loudly. She stops for a moment, putting her hand to her chest and letting a few gasping breaths escape her mouth in a wheezy whimper, and leans her head back against a rotten bookcase.

She rubs her eyes, breath stuttering and shaking, and takes a moment to just _breathe._

This-

This doesn’t change anything

It would happen one way or another…this was just…her job.

Her job.

She finds her resolve and pushes past the employee’s door and out into the rest of the second level, spends a moment making her way through aisles and past objects, dragging on a pair of dragon hide gloves and carefully lifting a small glass case. She stares at it mutely for a moment, unbelieving that she hadn’t noticed it before after being forced to scrub every inch of the place, and turns to go back downstairs when she notices something out of the corner of her eye.

_(Oh.)_

She quickens her pace, hoping that he doesn’t notice her and-

“You,” he calls out, waving her over with a self-entitled sneer.

She freezes.

“How may I help you sir?” she hears herself call out distantly, turning to address the boy directly.

“Tell me, what is this?” he asks, not bothering to look at her, a questioning lilt to his tone that she didn’t think he was capable of.

“That,” she says, silently telling herself to just _shut up,_ “is a vanishing cabinet.”

“And how does it work?” the boy trails a finger down its smooth wooden surface, tracing the ornate latch, and she wants to just disappear.

“It’s used to transport items between locations,” she explains, wondering why she’s even telling him at all, “however, it only works if it has a twin. And the twin to this particular cabinet is lost. It will probably” hopefully, “never be found.”

“I see,” he says, turning to look at her properly for the _first_ time and-

“Do I know you?”

Her heart stops.

“I feel as if I’ve seen you before…”

“It must be your imagination,” she smiles, a fake thing full of death and _fear_ , and the boy freezes, “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

The boys’ hands shakes minutely, he scowls, turns on his heel and leaves.

Hopefully – _hopefully, hopefully –_ that was the end of _that_ nonsense.

She stalks back down the stairs and to her impatient customer, refusing to flinch at the heavy glare he lays on her.

“It’s about time,” he hisses in what she supposes should be an intimidating tone, but really just makes him sound like Sasha on a particularly bad day, “do you have what I was looking for?”

“Yes sir,” she replies evenly, placing the glass case gently on the table for his inspection, “is this the item you were looking for?”

He takes a moment to look it over carefully, lifting it up with his own dragon-hide covered hands, and turning it over with a considering eye. She tries not to fiddle with her sleeve, tries not to make eye contact too long, and wishes she never left the castle.

“Yes,” he nods, placing it back on the counter and tapping his cane impatiently, “how much?”

“120 galleons,” she replies immediately, and he huffs.

“90,” he replies, looking down his nose at her.

“ _120,”_ she punctuates carefully, a scowl of her own beginning to mar her face, “and that’s a _steal._ You are aware of the curse placed on this item, yes?”

“Yes,” the other drawled out, “and what of it?”

“That racks the price up exponentially, and if I were selling to anyone other than your prestigious self I would sell it for 250 galleons _at least.”_ She tells him, holding it up to show off its rusty shine, “as it is, I happen to have heard of your political…tastes, and am willing to let this go for 120 galleons.”

He eyes her with a look of quiet consideration and sighs, somehow still managing to sound posh and superior.

“Very well,” he says, reaching into his robe and dropping a sack onto the table, “120 galleons.”

“Thank you very much sir,” she smiles, a fake thing, and holds out the case for him to take, “would you like a parcel to carry?”

“No,” he sneers, motioning for the other wandering boy to him with a beckon of his hand.

She watches him turn on his heel, grabbing his son by the nape of his neck, and make his way to the door.

“Have a good day, Mr. Malfoy, and do please come again,” she calls at his back.

She prays that this is the last she’ll see of that long hair and icy eyes, prays that the next time he steps through those doors she is _gone_ and that, more than anything, he doesn’t remember a mere _commoner_ such as herself.  

She collapses into her chair and puts her head in her hands, feels her racing heart slowly beat its way out of her stomach and back into its rightful place in her chest, and rubs her eyes tiredly.

“F-fuck,” she whispers to herself, voice shaking ever so slightly, “fuck.”

It would be fine.

It _had_ to be fine.

“One more year…”

o.O.o

“Where were you?! It’s been two weeks!” Diggory practically wails as he flings himself down before her.

“I told you didn’t I?” she mutters crossly, “I was visiting my family.”

Sasha purrs her hello as she rubs against his stomach and climbs up on his shoulders to greet him properly. He absently rubs her ears back.

“How was the ball?” she utters the words with a curl of her lips and disgust heavy in her tone, grimaces at the dreamy look that overcomes his face, and regrets her choice to open her mouth immediately.

“It was wonderful;” he says dreamily, “Cho was wonderful.”

“Oh,” she raises her eyebrow skeptically, “didn’t think you moved _that_ fast.”

He flushes red, splutters for a moment and seems to grasp for words. She feels amusement curl in her stomach, ignores the wide-eyed stare he gives her, and shoots him a dry look.

“How- How do you-?” he chokes for a moment, rakes his fingers through his hair, his ears a bright crimson red, “What do you- why? What-“

“Diggory,” she says calmly, sips some pumpkin juice, “I, am not a child.”

She ignores the open-mouthed flabbergasted look he gives her, ignores the fact that she _is_ in fact a child, and pours some tea instead, the juice too sweet.

The Hufflepuff common room is always ladled with some type of treat, beverages floating around the room in jeweled goblets, kept hot or cold by a refreshing charm until someone’s hands are placed upon them. It was a luxury she was more than content to take advantage of.

“Right,” he mutters, shakes his head and lets a laugh fall between them.

“How was visiting your family?” he asks instead of continuing _that_ conversation. He was still bright red.

She lets a small, sad smile fall on her lips and glances out one of the common rooms many windows.

“It was…long.” She tells him, “a bit chaotic.”

“Chaotic..?” he asks her, concern tugging at his eyes and she shakes her head.

He falls silent.

“The next task,” she says, swirls her tea absently and revels in the weak sunlight flickering through the drapes, “is coming soon. Do you know what to do?”

“No,” he tells her truthfully, teeth tugging at his lips nervously and eyes darting around the room, “but I’ve decided that I’m just going to go with it.”

“Good plan,” she says dryly, rolls her eyes and flickers her attention back towards him.

“Thanks,” he smiles, oblivious as ever.

And then – she remembers something.

“You…” she stops, considers if she should really ask him, and glances away.

“Yes?” he drawls the word out happily, moving forward to steal a biscuit off her plate. She sighs.

“You didn’t happen to give Harry Potter any…help on the task did you?” She resolutely doesn’t look at him as she asks and she can see him freeze from her peripheral.

“I,” he struggles for a moment, sits back on his haunches and gives the ground an intense look.

“I did,” he says, and she whips her head around to look at him.

“But I thought, you-“

She tries not to feel hurt-

“Just. Stay away from him Cedric,” she gets to her feet, “for your own sake – stay as far away as you can. Please.”

She sweeps away and into the girls dormitory before he can call out to her.

She doesn’t hear his muttered, “you called me Cedric,” or, “how did you…?”

She just-

Flees.

It’s what she’s best at anyway.

o.O.o

“Did you have a good holiday, Miss Dodger?” the words are drawled in a bland and somewhat sarcastic tone, and she feels herself stiffen despite her best efforts to stop the action.

“Yes,” she replies evenly, “thank you for asking Professor Snape,” keeping her eyes down on the thick dark green substance bubbling at her from its cozy home in her cauldron, she tries not to feel too threatened.

Snape has been acting…strange. Paying too much attention, focusing on her intently, looking down his crooked nose at her shrewdly-

She doesn’t know what to do.

She doesn’t know what-

Why-

She takes a deep breath. Let’s it out slowly. Ignores him until he skulks away.

The rest of the class is spent tensely, the students muttering to each other under their breath and Snape swooping down upon them like a bat out-of-hell. She can almost pretend everything is just as it was before – before she made the decision to get involved, before Diggory interrupted her carefully crafted life and threw everything into turmoil; before…

It doesn’t matter.

“One more year,” she breathes silently.

“Until what, Miss Dodger?”

She squeaks, much to her own mortification, her head darting up to address the speaker and she forces her eyes down, refusing to meet the others.

“Until my Auntie comes back from America Professor,” she says with a calmness she does not feel, a deadness that’s too true to be fake, “I’ve really missed her, you see, and my mother recently explained to me in a letter that she’s planned to come home in a years’ time.”

“I see,” he says, dark eyes focused on her in a surreal manner, and she feels retched bile rise up her throat, “and as interesting as that may be, you’re not in my classroom to _reminisce_ or _daydream_ Miss Dodger. Perhaps detention tonight will give you all the time you need to think of your plans for next year.”

“Yes Professor,” she grits out, “that would be lovely.”

She lets her eyes connect to his for a moment, lets them stare black holes into him, and she can see his eyes widen minutely, see his lips curling and feels satisfaction and insanity thrum through her veins, feels good about the fear she can _feel,_ so tangible and potent, feels good about the death her eyes bring, and the unsaid promises that-

She stops. Looks down.

Snape stares down on her for a moment more before moving on to the next table, docking points from a girl who bursts into tears when he sneers at her.

Snape had her on edge.

Had her so, _so_ on edge. She felt like she was going mad.

(Maybe she was-?)

He seemed to know this, too, purposely going out of his way to loom over her – watching her intently in the Grand Hall, as she goes to her classes – anywhere he _can_ keep an eye on her he _is._ Even Diggory’s noticed.

“What’ve you done that’s got him so peeved?” he had muttered to her quietly, keeping his head down and towards his plate as she attempted to subtly position herself so the potions master couldn’t see her.

“Not a clue,” she had hissed back, annoyed and vexed and ready to just _hex_ him already.

“Tough luck,” he sympathized, then got up and left to Cho’s table like the _traitor_ he was.

Those black eyes didn’t leave her for the rest of the night.

She sped through the halls, weaving between students and hexing others as she made her irritable way to the astronomy tower. It seemed to be the only place she could go to get some peace and quiet anymore – not even the library was sacred.

(She was too afraid to go back to her dank and musty room, too overcome with memories every time she found her way in there, found herself wanting to run away, wanting to get _better.)_

She perches on the very edge of a tall, tall railing and peeks over. The ground was far, so very far, down and she somehow found peace in that. Peace in the fact that if she were to fall, just like in a past life, it would kill her.

She’s been changing.

Changing for the better, or-?

(It’s probably for the worst, anyway, so there’s really no point in thinking on it.)

She slips a bright red potion out of her parcel and eyes it, popping the cork off and lets the breeze bring her the sickly sweet medicinal smell. She stares, tips some over the edge of the tower, watches the drops splatter on the ground, and takes a small sip. She puts it away.

She spends a long minute staring up into murky gray clouds and vibrant blue expanses.

“What do I do?” she asks the sky in an old language, a language that was _her own._

The sky doesn’t reply, and she feels restless anxiety tug at her conscious.

“Really,” she pushes, tenses her hands against the railing and braces her legs, “I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

She looks down, feels the edges of her hair brush her forehead, lets them veil her face, and tries not to cry.

“I said I’d get better, but. It doesn’t.” she stops, struggles for a moment, and kicks a leg irritably; “Will it really change anything?”

The sky remains silent.

“I don’t know if what I do will make a difference in this world. I don’t know if it’s worth it. I just…I want to go home,” she chokes a bit, “I’m tired of existing.”

The silence surrounding her feels overwhelming and so very lonely and she takes a moment to just let it in.

She watches the clouds bring in a dark stormy dullness; watches the students on the far edges of the courtyard scatter back into the castle, and takes a deep breath.

She has a thought-

Oh.

_(Oh.)_

“Perhaps,” she mutters, legs dangling dangerously and eyes focused intently on the sky, “perhaps that would work.”

The sky rumbles ominously.

“But not now,” she continues somewhat-brokenly, words twisting around foreign syllables and letters effortlessly, naturally, “not until everything is done.”

Not until it’s all over.

The first pattering of rain begins to fall from the sky, and she watches it with a morbid fascination, mind far gone and body held aloft as if by strings.

Maybe-

Maybe this would work.

This world _owed_ her.

This is the least it could do for her.

o.O.o

“You seem…” he seems to struggle for the right words for a moment, fiddling with his wand and biting his lip, “oddly…chipper?”

She hums at him noncommittally, letting her fingers trace and linger over the edges of different books, eyes roaming over the different titles.

He waits for her to say something, anything, and after a long moment of silence sighs, tugs his fingers through his hair, and gives her a dramatic look.

“Did something good happen?” he asks, obviously trying to keep up this one-sided conversation.

“I just…” she pauses, considers her words carefully, and shrugs, “had a thought it all. It’s not too important.”

He gives her a strange look and plops onto the floor behind her, watching her search through the throngs of books.

“You spend all of your time here Victoria,” he tells her, “you need a break. Besides, I know for a fact that your grades are the best they could be – there’s really no reason to be here any longer.”

She rolls her eyes and turns to give him a glance.

“I’m looking for a book,” she says, ignoring his muttered ‘obviously’, “that my…sister wanted to know about.”

“Oh?” he perks up, always taking a keen interest whenever the topic of her family was brought up, and she tries to smother a pang of pain and guilt. “Which one?”

She ignores his question, turning back to the shelves, and weaves her way into the next aisle. Sasha sits by Diggory’s side like a traitor. Diggory watches her go with resignation.

She can feel the slow passage of time vaguely, can feel the minutes tick by into hours, and ignores the candles that light themselves to provide an adequate light source. She doesn’t care how long this takes.

She takes her time to search through each shelf, making her steady way to the back of the library, and stops when she suddenly reaches the last book with a frown tugging on her lips.

She fights back her conflicted feelings of disappointment and resignation and takes a breath. There were other libraries to search through.

“Find it?” Diggory pops in with a smile, Sasha clinging to his head, and she shoves her wand – which she had drawn instinctively – back into her pocket with a huff. He should know better than to startle her.

“No,” she admits, hooded eyes giving the shelves one last stare before turning to properly address him, “but that’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, concerned, “y’know I can always owl home and see if our personal libraries has what you’re looking for..?”

She blinks, a vague sense of surprise and fondness filling her.

“…Really?”

“Of course!” he smiles, bright and happy, “we’re friends after all!”

She stares up at him.

Her heart clenches painfully.

(It was horrible. This unbearable feeling of guilt and knowing, understanding that she can’t save him, can’t-)

“You’re going to die,” she blurts out, unthinking, and he blinks down at her in confusion.

“What?” he’s still smiling, his brow furrowed, and she wanted to hit him so bad.

“You’re going to die,” she says, slowly this time, testing the words on her tongue. “You’re going to die and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

She clenches her fists, brings them up to her chest and looks down at the floor, willing the tears to stay away. Having it said aloud felt as if she was setting it in stone – as if there was no running from it now. As if it’s time for her to face it.

“Hey,” she hears softly, feels a firm pressure against her shoulder, and shakes her head, “it’s going to be okay.”

She looks up at him and saw-

Saw a child.

Someone who didn’t understand, who didn’t know-

He was smiling, soft and easy, as if soothing a frightened animal, and she struggles not to lash out at him, not to force him to see the truth.

Several minutes pass.

Someone coughs distantly.

“Now then,” he says, just as softly as before, “what was that book you were looking for?”

She stares at him for a long moment, feeling apathetic resignation settle onto her shoulders and bites out a slightly bitter laugh. She rubs her eyes, takes a breath, and clears her mind.

She tells him, a perfect picture of calmness – as if she wasn’t just moments away from completely shattering – and he doesn’t even look surprised at her sudden mood change.

She has broken him.

“Oh? I know for a fact that we have that one…”

o.O.o

-An absolute clarity.

…

It’s _waiting for her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for any and all mistakes i am very exhausted send help


	9. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of these comments are so wonderful and kind and leave me in tears omg, thank you, ily all. 
> 
> also, i hope everyone had a wonderful new year and that this year will be the absolute best for them. i think we all deserve it. 
> 
> also, i'm sorry for how short this chapter is. it's kind of like an interlude?? there's gonna be a lot next chapter lmao, but i needed somethin before then. so here ya are! enjoy ~~

Lately, she’s often found herself sitting at the edge of the black lake, staring into its depths and contemplating the life hidden deep within it. Finds herself wondering, somewhat distantly, on the next task and how it will play out. How Diggory will plan his next steps. How Potter will exceed the children around hers expectations. (How, sometimes, she wants nothing more than to drown in its inky blackness-)

This day is not so different, it seems, and she finds herself wrapped up in her yellow and black striped-scarf, books she had borrowed from the library held loosely in her grasp, standing on the very edge of the dock, and peering into its cold clutches. The wind tugs at her hair, causing a shiver to go down her spine, and, she thinks, it almost feels real. A not-dream. 

It’s easy to forget that this is reality, what with how...ridiculous this whole world is. 

(It’s also easy to remember what reality is, though, with the nightmares of her death that haunt her endlessly, and the  _ nothingness  _ she can feel ingrained in her so deeply, and, the absence of her family like a shock to her system, an aching feeling of  _ offness _ set in her chest, like a piece of her is just  _ gone _ . Sometimes she turns with the expectation of them being there, only to find them not. It’s like going up the stairs with the expectation of there being an extra step at the top - the sick feeling of fear and  _ offness  _ that settles on one's shoulders as that last step turns out to be false. The  _ wrongness _ of a foot landing on thin air, crashing down with a hard thud as one tries to catch their breath, anxious. Dreadful.) 

So, she stares into the blackness and the blackness also stares back into her, and she thinks about what it would mean to become lost in the waters folds. She hears the thrum and rhythmic bong of the castle's clock, and pulls back from the wooden edge, a strange sense of disappointment settling in her chest that she can’t quite explain. She hears the distant chatter of children being set free from their classrooms clutches, and turns to make her way back into the warmth the castle provides. The clouds overhead rumble at her threateningly, and she has just passed the castles doors when-

“You’re-” it comes to her, suddenly and muffled, and she freezes against the weight of it - against the knowledge of what it means.

She purposely doesn’t turn to the sound, lets her hair shadow her face.

She has only heard that voice once before, in this life, and already she would recognize it instantly.

Hunching her head down, she cradles her books against her chest gently, and makes to move away from the person behind her. Pretends she never heard him.

“Wait a minute, you,” the voice is snarling, and she finds herself suddenly yanked back and forced to meet a pair of icy blue eyes. The others hands are digging into her shoulder painfully, heavy and sweaty and  _ disgusting,  _ and she feels her body curling into itself in an attempt to get away. How  _ dare  _ he  _ touch  _ her-

“What do you want?” she hisses back, wand already out and ready to twist into a new hex of her own invention if he doesn’t let her go  _ right now,  _ and she can feel something twisting in her stomach, up her chest, and tries not to become overwhelmed with the feeling.

The boy flinches back, hands breaking away from her to clutch at his sides, but he remains stubborn - staring at her resolutely. 

“You’re the one from Borgin and Burkes, aren’t you?” he asks, voice tight and controlled and  _ loud. _

She moves forward, intent on shoving her  _ fist  _ down his  _ throat, because how  _ dare  _ he  _ touch  _ her,  _ when a hand to her back stills her. She turns, wand now forgotten and hand reaching out to deliver a solid  _ smack  _ to the other person that’s touching her, when she stops because-

“What’s going on, Victoria?” Diggory asks her, standing behind her and looking from her to Malfoy in what she can only guess is confused concern. She is still bristled, tense, and she knows he can tell with how much time they spend together. She can barely control herself from hexing the boy in front of her mercilessly. 

“Nothing,” she says, voice low, and she sees his brows twitch up slightly. 

“Don’t  _ you  _ ignore me-” Malfoy is saying, and she turns towards him furiously, spiteful resentment on the tip of her tongue, magic sparking in her fingers-

She feels Diggory’s heavy presence behind her, takes in a sharp breath, and lets it out slowly. There are some things he doesn’t need to know about her. 

“I have  _ no,”  _ she hisses at him, eyes sharp and  _ dead,  _ “idea what you’re talking about  _ Malfoy.  _ Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have have better things to be doing right now.”

She pushes past the sputtering boy, ignores the pale, wide-eyed look he sends her, and twists to make her way to the third floor corridor - to her musty little room. 

She skips the rest of her classes.

o.O.o

“Do you need more potions, Miss Dodger?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

When she wakes up the next morning she finds ten new brightly colored, bubbling vials in her trunk. She closes the lid harshly and pretends she never saw them. 

o.O.o

“He’s really not what you make him out to be,” the words are murmured, quietly, against the setting sun. The black lake glistens at them invitingly, almost as if to make up for the monsters lurking deep within. Falling from a young girl’s lips in a vain hope of somehow twisting her mind against the truths only  _ she  _ knows. 

Granger finds her ever increasingly - offering ‘help’ wherever possible, shadowing her in the crowded hallways of the castle, her eyes darting after her during meal times with thinly veiled concern and  _ curiosity.  _

_ “Made yourself a friend have you?” Diggory had asked her jokingly one morning, spying the ever-watchful eyes of Hermione Granger peering at her from the Gryffindor table. _

_ “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she had replied, disarmingly, and turned from the table to stalk to her classes. She has no care for what the Gryffindor does, so long as it doesn’t affect Diggory - and doesn’t involve Potter.  _

“Harry he’s...he’s just misunderstood, really,” Granger whispers to her, fiddling her fingers and tapping her foot to a listless beat, “he doesn’t  _ want  _ to hurt anyone. He doesn’t cause...trouble, willingly.”

She had briefly considered not saying anything at all, letting Granger form her own conclusions at the silence, and eventually pushes the idea aside with a small, bitter smile. 

“I won’t change my mind,” is all she had said, eyes heavy against the slowly falling sun, that cold breeze again tugging at her hair.

Granger had looked at her then, some type of desperation in her eyes, and she thinks back to the books, back to what Potter will cause.

“I won’t,” she says again, thinking of green spells and dead bodies, a sisters murmured words, and the  _ nothingness. _

She doesn’t want Diggory to endure that.

She doesn’t want him to feel what she had.

o.O.o

She watches the calendar slowly shrug away the days, the mark of the next task standing out boldly on its parchment, and stares down at her small body.

She can’t get the feeling of Malfoy’s hand touching her out of her mind. Can’t stop feeling their weight and  _ intent,  _ the nasty feel of his magic upon her skin and the  _ something  _ that seemed ready to lash out, constantly at the forefront of her thoughts, and her nightmares - which had slowly abated with Diggory’s presence - come at her full force. 

She had a small comfort, before, just a tiny one. The comfort of knowing that this new body of hers is clean and untainted. Of knowing that it hadn’t been  _ touched _ . She wonders, faintly, if she can see this body the same again.

Her grades begin to slowly drop, one by one, and Diggory hovers around her nervously for the rest of the week. 

She eyes the vials in her trunk ever increasingly with a heavy, tired eye.

o.O.o

_ If someone were to ask her,  _ before,  _ what true pain would mean she would probably have answered with a witty joke and a laugh, perhaps something along the lines of angering her mother or being on the receiving end of her brothers - lengthy - pranking phase. Indeed, if she were  _ asked  _ such things this would be how she’d respond, a deflection of a real answer, a sentence to invite another topic away from such heavy matters. But, if she were to take a moment to contemplate the question deeply, alone and undisturbed, she would perhaps have felt a shiver coursing down her spine, a sinking feeling of fear settling in her stomach, and would know, deeply, that it is something she wished to never face. True pain is a concept different for everyone, no matter what it may be, and even she herself isn’t sure what would pain her most. _

_ She wouldn’t have thought, for even a moment, that one day she would face the prospect of  _ true pain  _ with a bitter laugh and a humorless smile. That she would become so acclimatized to the misery that she would, over time, begin to wonder if she had ever been truly happy at all.  _

_ Every family, no matter how seemingly perfect they are, has struggles and moments of pain that could tear and rip one to shreds. Every family experiences moments of misery so strong it could leave one wondering whether the steady bindings of blood and memories of fonder times had really meant anything at all and if, perhaps, hatred for a beloved one was inevitable all along.  _

_ As a child grows and becomes accustomed to the world around them they often find themselves learning things from the people they love that would have been better left unsaid. Secrets or lies coming to light that could rupture and morph a perspective from something bright and cheerful to something full of spite and ire. Perhaps it is something small that inspires such grotesque feelings, like a simple habit proving itself to be unbearable, or, it could be something large and monstrous, a thing that which before had proven itself to be unimaginable in one’s mind. Something that would have made one think ‘no, never, not  _ them’. 

_ These are all things which she had become accustomed to. Things that, time and time again, were taught to her through measured words and reckless, whimful, actions. _

_ Her family had their own problems, their own - demons. She was no saint herself, there was no doubt, and while she does remember a time in which she truly hated her family, nothing could prepare her for losing them. _

_ For  _ becoming  _ lost. _

_ She wonders, sometimes, in the faint and heady feeling of the moonlight shining down on her, if perhaps her body was ever found. _

_ If, perhaps, they were still waiting for her to come home. _

o.O.o

She’s in the library, when it happens.

(Most everything likes to happen in the library, it seems.)

“Miss Dodger,” a voice quietly tells her, small and frail and shaky, “Professor Sprout has been asking to see you Miss.”

She stops, looks down, and stares at the house-elf looking up at her imploringly. This is her first time seeing one, and she can’t bring herself to feel anything more than a passing interest at its batlike ears and bulging eyes.

“The Professor has been asking to see you, Miss,” the elf repeats itself, blinking its bulbous eyes slowly, and she frowns.

“What for?” she asks, the words muted and low in the late hour, and she tries to think back on what she could have done that would warrant a talking to from her house head. Nothing comes to mind – especially not on a night as important as this.

The elf squeaks, it’s large floppy ears twitching with the movement, and she tries not to scowl. She doesn’t have time for this; her body is tired and slow – sluggish with the weight of the day’s troubles and heavy with the youngness that she cannot control. The past few hours have been spent hunched over cauldrons and jars, tediously scrubbing every slimy inch of each pot and storing away insects and creatures of all kinds to be used in the next day’s lesson. Snape was a slave driver, taking morbid glee in watching her rub her aching neck and stretch out her back, in abusing her flair for charms to keep his ingredients fresh. Even now he tries to find every fault in her he can, any reason to punish her with detention – she hasn’t had a day’s rest in weeks. She needs to go to bed now, if she wants to wake up in time for tomorrow, for-

The Second Task.

Her heart twists, anxiety and adrenaline running through her veins, and she has to take a shuddery breath in order to keep her fear at bay. The elf watches her, silent and curious.

She can’t help but wonder if it, too, can feel her strangeness.

“P-Professor Sprout didn’t tell me, Miss, only that I was to get you right away,” the elf tells her, feet shuffling and hands twisting around each other.

“Where is the Professor?” she asks, somewhat regrettably, and tries not to let her distaste show on her face.

She just wants to curl up with Sasha and go to sleep. She wants to pretend that tomorrow is just another normal day and that the year wasn’t drawing ever closer to a close – to a war. She wants to pretend that she doesn’t exist, and that this whole world is nothing more than another one of her nightmares.

_ A pure white lily is stained with red and begins to wilt and wither away, the ashes of its form burning acid through her desk, and the others begin to do the same. The blackness is reaching for her, desperate to catch her, and she feels the familiar  _ nothingness _ consume her soul and feels the weight of a world crumbling beneath her feet, life blinking out like lights, and she is  _ nothing _ and  _ everything _ and- _

“I-In her study Miss,” the elf tells her before popping away, to the kitchens where tomorrow’s breakfast has yet to be prepared.

She stares at the empty space it leaves behind for a long, drawn out moment before turning on her heel to stalk through the shelves. She hears the rustling of paper and doesn’t turn to where she knows Potter is, still desperately looking for something to save him from tomorrow's Task. She can practically feel his frantic heartbeat; tastes the electric taste of a charm in the air as he once more checks the time. It’s not her problem.

She takes her time on the way to the Professor's office, leisurely twisting down halls and stopping to look out at the night sky when she happens across a set of large windows. Sasha darts out at her from the shadows the castle casts, eyes keen and practically glowing, before climbing her body to settle on her shoulders with a pleased meow. She feels a tired smile tug at her lips, a small thing, and lets her fingers run through her companion’s fur. Setting her attention forwards, she once more lets her feet drift silently across the stone floor.

The past few weeks have been…exhausting. Both physically and mentally – she isn’t sure how much more she can take. She isn’t sure how she feels about being Diggory’s...companion. If she were to be completely honest, were to sit down and think back on both the present and the  _ past,  _ she would have to say that she-

Regrets it.

Regrets the moment she set her eyes upon the Hufflepuff table.

(Regrets the moment she set her eyes upon  _ that man-) _

Because all she can see is a body’s listless weight falling down, down, down, blood steadily trailing after it, and the gasps of an elated crowd – a crowd so pleased with the carnage and bloodshed they had been given, uncaring of the pain and torment inflicted upon those so lucky to be  _ ‘nominated’ _ . All she can see is a kind, pained smile assuring her that  _ no, it’s not as bad as it seems, really, you don’t have to worry Victoria I’m fi- _

All she can see is what she’s inflicted upon this world, and what more’s to come.

Things have been...distant, lately. 

Vague. Listless.

It feels as if she’s drifting through the scattered remnants of something long gone and pretending as if she was still - whole. Okay. Held together.

“Come in!” Sprouts voice calls to her, muffled. She huffs a silent breath, leans into Sasha’s rumbled nuzzling and steels herself to get this over with as soon as possible. She opens the door.

“You asked for me?” She asks, ignoring the woman’s motions towards the chair settled in front of her plant strewn desk, and remains standing in front of the still open door.

The Professor smiles at her cheerfully, apparently ignoring (or perhaps not noticing) her rudeness, and pushes aside a large stack of papers to motion greatly with her arms.

“Miss Dodger!” Sprout beams, witches hat becoming crooked on her head, “it is so good to see you again!”

She feels her lips twist into a grimace as she tries not to cringe at the frankly disturbing amount of positive vibes Sprout is  _ attacking _ her with. The woman was always eerily cheerful around her, always going out of her way to greet her with beaming grins - that is, of course, on the off chance she happens to notice her. She has learned to avoid the teacher as much as possible, if only so she doesn’t have to hear Diggory’s muffled snorts and sniggers.

“What did you need me for, Professor?” she asks, a little wearily, hoping to distract the Professor from her undoubtedly long spiel of,  _ ‘how are you doing Miss Dodger? And your charms work, are they as splendid as always? How is Mister Diggory-?’ _ . 

Her eyes feel tired, and she can barely hold them open against her House Heads sunny attitude.

“Oh!” Sprout exclaims, busying herself with putting away her quill and standing up to round her desk, “well the truth is, I find myself in need of your assistance Miss Dodger!”

She frowns, a nagging feeling of dread beginning to tug at her consciousness as she hesitantly asks “…whatever for, Professor?”

She thinks back – back, back, back – to when she had spent her nights curled against a pillow and settled against a headboard, to when she had whispered silent words meant only for her  _ sister’s  _ ears into the night-

“With the Second Task of course!”

A memory comes to her,

“Wha-“

“Don’t worry about the details Miss Dodger! You’ll understand, eventually! Now if you’d let me just-“

“Wait, no, I-“

“Oh, Miss Dodger, everything is fine!” Sprout smiles, pulling out her wand, which is adorned with strangely colored leaves curling around the handle, and flicking it towards her with a muttered incantation “The spell will explain everything to you!”

What does-

(What does it-)

This can’t be right, it can’t be right,  _ she can’t- _

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Dodger.”

And then she becomes-

Nothing.

o.O.o

_ She wonders, sometimes, what it means for a child to become an adult. What such a transference could  _ possibly  _ entail to someone who is oblivious and innocent, unaware and unbound by the rules of society. Is it the aging of a body? A consciousness? Is it becoming more aware to what’s around you? Becoming more responsible?  _

_ What could it possibly mean to a child? A child far from the cusp of adulthood? _

_ Is it learning how to drive? Being able to buy as much candy as you would want? Being able to sleep over at a friends any night of the week, giggling late into the night without repercussion? Is it being treated equally by the adults around you?  _

_ Is it a more free, open world, set away from the boundaries and rules set upon you by the adults who claim to know better than you? _

_ (Or, is it the opposite?) _

_ A phrase she had often heard over the years, when she had whined and cried that she  _ “couldn’t wait to grow up already”,  _ was to be careful what she wished for. A simple, sad sentence she had heard from many an adult with a melancholic, wistful edge. She hadn’t understood then, what it meant to wish to be a child. Hadn’t understood just how free she really was, just how  _ carefree  _ she really was. _

_ She learned, of course, through time and through hardships. Why the adults around her told her to be so wary of wishing her childhood away. Why they had seemed so pitiful, sympathetic, when they said it.  _

_ She wishes she could scream at them, now. Wishes she could scream and rant and  _ rave  _ at them because this- _

_ This isn’t what anyone would want. _

_ Is this the price for wanting the  _ ‘better days’  _ back?  _

_ Is this what it means to be ‘ _ free?’  _ To be ‘ _ carefree?’

_ Those adults couldn’t possibly comprehend the helplessness that comes with a child's body. The feeling of being trapped by one's own skin, a prisoner too young to make one's own choices and too young to have the ability understand what’s around them.  _

_ To be looked down upon. _

_ To look in the mirror and see a stranger.  _

_ But, more than that, she wishes she could go back and scream at herself. Scream, and rant, and  _ rave  _ at the choices she made. The people she hurt. The wish to go back and be free again.  _

_ The her of the past really didn’t understand just how made she had it. _

_ But, truthfully, the her of the present didn’t either. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come scream at me please, i need it-  
> dev-fiction.tumblr.com


	10. Waterlogged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! New chapter, at last! It’s officially summer break where I’m at, so I hope to continue updating this and my other stories for the next month or so…
> 
> You guys’s support while writing this story has been so overwhelming! I really couldn’t have asked for more. Going through the comments just leaves me feeling giddy and excited...thank you! I’m very glad I decided to keep writing this, and I hope you can bear through with me until the end. 
> 
> Everyone’s anger at Sprout was so funny to read. I’m glad to see you all so passionate about it! I’m going to go ahead and explain her actions here though, okay? I don’t think it’s something that will ever make its way into the story.
> 
> **Why did Sprout do such a terrible thing to Victoria?**
> 
> Well - Sprout is Victoria’s head of house. I know that’s kind of a lackluster explanation, but let me put it this way; as her head of house she would have been notified of Victoria’s problems with depression as soon as Pomfrey had been made aware of them. Sprout is an incredibly bubbly person - very cheery and lax in her teachings, and as such she’d be the type of person to do something in ‘someone's best interest’. If there’s a problem and she thinks she can solve it, then - well, she’s going to try. Even if it is against her targets wishes. 
> 
> Victoria is a very quiet girl who wouldn’t dare show what she’s feeling to others. She only has one friend, who is five years older than her no less, and shows absolutely no interest in making more. What’s more she has depression and a possible anxiety disorder. 
> 
> Taking part in something as widespread and important as the Tournament - isn’t that guaranteed to get her noticed, to make her friends? Surely, if she can participate in something like the famed Triwizard Tournaments she would loosen up a little, come out of her shell, and _enjoy herself._
> 
> Or, at least, that’s probably what Sprout was thinking. Her actions were definitely wrong, but her intent behind them was good-hearted. 
> 
> While reading through the book I couldn’t find any instances of Hermione or Ron explaining how exactly they ended up at the bottom of the lake. Who asked them to participate, and why. This gave me a lot of room to work - if it was McGonagall who put them under a spell, then she most definitely did it with their explicit permission, and after having explained everything to them thoroughly. That’s just the type of teacher she is. But what about Cho? Sprout?
> 
> I think Sprout would have jumped at the chance to get Victoria more involved in school life. Victoria, although amazing at charms, shows absolutely no initiative in keeping up her grades and being social. It just isn’t important to her - she knows that none of this truly matters, and that war is just a few short years away. As her head of house, this is probably something that bothers Sprout immensely. Hufflepuffs just...aren’t like that. 
> 
> So, she figures she can make a few...adjustments to the spell that will explain things to her, and so long as she’s fast enough that she doesn’t get an explicit _no_ then things will be fine. Victoria will appreciate what she did in the end, and all would be swell!
> 
> Or something like that. Sprout was very...naive, in this instance. We’ll have to see how this progresses!
> 
> Anyway, I think I’ve droned on enough! Enjoy the chapter!

Cedric Diggory was having an absolutely terrible, awful, horrifically bad, no-good day. From the moment he woke up and was subsequently clawed in the face by an irate Sasha, to the moment he tripped over his own feet going down the stairs, - much to his own humiliation - he couldn’t help but feel he was somehow  _ cursed  _ to have a horrid day. But, ultimately, his terrible, awful, horrifically bad, no-good day could all be pinpointed down to one reason.

The Second Task.

He finds himself somewhat regretting ever joining the, admittedly, dangerous tournament in the first place, but has to admit that if he were given the chance to change his mind he’d still do it anyway.

But that’s not what’s important right now-

“Have you seen Victoria?” he asks Cho, looking out around the lake somewhat frantically, the first-year nowhere to be found. Sasha was settled irritably on his shoulder, hissing at anyone who jostles them or dares to come too close and he has to pat her head to make her claws stop digging into his shoulder painfully. She’s been like this since he woke up and he doesn’t know how to console her, used to Victoria always being nearby to take her away. 

“Um, who?” Cho asks him, a little hesitantly, and he has to shake himself from getting lost in her shy smile and her pretty eyes and-

“Victoria Dodger, she’s a Hufflepuff first year - my friend?” Cedric tells her absently, feeling a little miffed that Cho has no clue who Victoria - wonderfully brilliant Victoria, whose smile is nonexistent and whose eyes are sometimes a little too dark for his heart to handle - is, but ignores it in favor of scouring over the flood of first years, looking desperately for the bright auburn color that makes her head home. 

He can’t find her.

He shouldn’t be surprised, really, Victoria has stated more than once just how against the entirety of the Tournament - for whatever reason he can’t really understand - she was, but that still didn’t stop the seedling of disappointment and, perhaps, hurt from wrapping around his lungs and digging into his chest a little too tight. 

He had held onto hope that she would come anyway, like she had for the First Task, but decides silently that he shouldn’t be too upset about it. She had her reasons, he supposed. 

He still doesn't stop looking, nevertheless.

“Good luck Cedric,” Cho tells him in a whispery tone, her eyes gleaming in excitement, before she’s disappearing into the crowd to take her seat with her giggling friends. 

He looks out at the lake, at its gleaming blackness, and towards the students around him.

“Were are you Victoria?” he asks silently.

Sasha meows, seeming to reverberate his question into the air around them.

o.O.o

_ She was floating. _

_ Distantly, adversely, she was aware that she was participating - helping, something inside her insists adamantly - in the Second Task. It’s important, she thinks, that she’s currently here, like this. It means  _ something _ , although she isn’t sure what.   _

She was everything and nothing, the dark space between stars, and she knew that soon she would disappear altogether. 

_ She died, didn’t she? _

She remembers him. 

_ She could feel something around her, something cold and wet and smooth, and she knew, vaguely, that it was the water of the Black Lake.  _

_ She was helping with the Second Task. _

_ It reminded her of something else too, she couldn’t help but think, reminded her of something from  _ before. 

They met on the beach, on a warm sunny day.

She remembers the sweat trailing down her skin and the ocean dragging through her hair, bringing with it the wind of high tide. She could taste the salt of it, everywhere, and she remembers laughing as she had ran upon the beach, friends whose faces she can no longer remember by her side. 

That’s when she saw him. 

_ There was air filtering through her lungs, through magic she supposed, and she found herself wanting desperately to be free of the confining grips around her legs and her wrists. They were restraining her, though for what she doesn’t know, and it felt horribly familiar.  _

_ She was helping with the Second Task. _

_ Something about it made her think that it had happened to her before, although she couldn’t remember where. _

He was a strange one with a different type of face set on an odd type of smile, but she chalked that up to him being foreign to her country and left it at that. He had come from the States, he’d told her, and was staying in a nearby hotel while he tried to find inspiration to finish up his work. He was experiencing a block of sorts. 

_ She could feel the flittering sensation of her hair tickling her cheeks, her nose, and words from long ago come to her, hauntingly and familiar- _

_ “You are a masterpiece.” _

_ And she feels horror claw its way up her throat.  _

He was an artist.

_ Everything and nothing. The space between stars. _

She remembers the oil on canvas, the warmth of it seeping into her skin, her bones, and remembers the waterlogged feeling of  _ sensation  _ that came with it. She remembers watching the paint drip down, down, down the blank expanse of untouched paper, remembers watching him add layers upon layers of bursting life into the seams of a world not yet made. 

She remembers him asking if he could paint her and-

_ She was helping with the Second Task. _

She remembers saying yes.

o.O.o

He watches the clock tic ever closer to his impending doom, wondering briefly where Harry Potter is, and tries not to let his anxiousness show. 

He was representing his house, his school, and he couldn’t afford to lose face - not here, not now. The other competitors were all so intimidating in their own ways, and he too wanted to exude an aura of calm confidence. 

Victoria often gave him a speculative, disapproving face when he voiced these thoughts aloud. Told him that it was stupid to put so much on his shoulders, that the school wasn’t worth it. 

Perhaps that was the innocence of being so young.

(Although he admittedly sometimes forgets her age and often finds himself believing that she’s older than he is. It was nothing new. A lot about Victoria left his mind muddled and confused.)

Karkaroff was looking exceedingly more ecstatic as the time passed, Viktor Krum  _ \- The Viktor Krum! In the flesh! -  _ standing impassively by his side. Although, if Cedric looks closer, he can see the pinch of distress between the boys brows as his eyes occasionally dart towards the Gryffindor stands. 

There was a murmuring through the crowd, all wondering where the legendary Boy-Who-Lived could be, and Dumbledore was cheerfully speaking with the judges. Cedric found he didn’t particularly care, too busy wondering where  _ Victoria  _ could be.

He can’t help but cast a quick charm, the anxiousness of waiting beginning to grate on his nerves, and finds it scarcely a minute until the Task begins. He feels a pool of sweat trail down his back, coldly, and pulls up the collar of his robe uncomfortably. Sasha mews on his shoulder, and he pats her, hand trembling. 

“Where  _ is  _ she Sasha?” he whispers to the cat, licks his dry lips, and casts his eyes around one final time.

No luck.

“Where have you been?!” he hears a voice ring out suddenly, “the task’s about to start!”

“Now, now Percy! Let him catch his breath!”

He turns, eyes meeting that of Harry Potter’s - hunched over, panting, and clutching something in his hand almost desperately - and Victoria’s words from before come back to him. 

_ “Oh, and by the way,” a mischievous smile, so off-putting on a face that is always shrouded in a strange type of melancholy, something he can’t quite pin down, “Potter’s got a thing for her too.” _

And he flushes, eyes turning towards the stands where Cho is listening intently to something her friend is saying, and ducks his head down. His palms feel sweaty, and he grips his wand with an iron grip. 

Victoria is a lot more adept at creating mischief than she appears, and he feels a smile tugging up his lips despite himself. 

He feels worry nudge him deeper, and he glances at Sasha.

“You can’t come with me into the water Sasha,” he whispers to the cat, who narrows her eyes at him in a strangely intimidating manner. Her paws flex, and she seems to settle herself on his shoulder more firmly. 

“Do you really want to get wet?” he tries instead, hissing when her claws dig further into the meat of his shoulder. She stops at this, tilting her head - as if contemplating and digesting his words - before pulling her ears down with an irritated growl and jumping from him to make her way to the stands. 

He swears he see’s her flick her tail derisively before she disappears all together, under the seats and away from prying eyes. 

He huffs out a sigh, feeling a little bit better.

He’s distracted from his thoughts when he’s jostled suddenly, and he glances up at Ludo Bagman who is trying to cajole him into his starting position. He lets the man nudge him with a frown, and shakes his head. He doesn’t have time to be worrying about Victoria - the task is about to begin, and even despite his friend’s absence he’s determined to win. 

He feels something like spite begin to worm up his throat, cloying and thick in his mouth, and he grimaces around the taste of it. He suddenly realizes that he wants to prove Victoria wrong - wants to prove  _ his worth _ , and if not for his school or his parents, then for himself. 

Holding that feeling tight in his chest, he takes a deep breath and casts his eyes forward, to the lake. 

“Well, all our champions are ready for the Second Task, which will start on my whistle! They have precisely an hour to recover what has been taken from them. On the count of three, then,” Ludo Bagman says, casting glances in Harry’s direction with an almost feverish look in his eye. Cedric can’t help but feel a tiny bit of ire at the favoritism, but ignores it for the time being, instead preparing to run into the lake.

He takes a moment to balance himself better, clenching his jaw and bracing his shoulders tightly, and waits for the countdown to begin. 

“One…” Bagman starts, and Cedric puffs out a quick breath of air as the feeling of excitement begins to swell within him, a cord ready to snap, “two...three!”

Cedric twists his wand, feels an air bubble taking form - wrapping around him firmly, until his neck feels oddly disconnected from his head -  and takes off, running into the cold lake with a shiver. He ignores the feeling and tredges deeper, feels the way the water tugs at his robes, and grits his teeth.

This feeling of cold will be nothing compared to the feeling of winning, he tells himself - in proving Victoria wrong.

He’s nearly up to his neck, teeth chattering, and he subconsciously pulls in a breath, holding it, as he pushes himself under the small waves. The water, disturbed with the presence of so many people, laps at him angrily. 

He blinks against the current of it, and is thankful that the bubblehead charms takes hold around the entirety of his head, allowing him to see without trouble. His neck and face, free of wetness, contrasts sharply with the freezing sensation the rest of his body is enduring, and he quakes with the odd feel of it. A part of him desperately wants to shove his face into the water, if only for the sake of having a consistent feeling of wetness, while the other wants nothing more than for the entirety of him to be dry. 

He briefly wonders if it’s possible to make a bubble-head charm large enough to fit an entire body in, and how that would affect swimming. Maybe, after all of this is done, he and Victoria can try during a free period. If anyone can make it happen, it’s her. 

Shaking himself free of these thoughts, he pushes off and kicks his legs harshly as he swims deeper into the water, not entirely sure what he’s looking for.

_ One hour, one hour, one hour,  _ chants a mantra in his head, his excitement and anticipation of the Task swelling in his lungs and driving him deeper into the dark water.

He felt jittery, his nerves on edge, and he can’t stop his eyes from darting after the occasional flittering seaweed and bubble that passes the corner of his eye. Deeper, deeper still he goes, into the dark expanse of water that creeps below his robes and freezes him from the the inside out.

He takes care to stray from the high tangles of seaweed, remembering that Grindylow’s are likely to be hiding among them, and struggles to push his feet further.

He checks his watch.

_ 50 minutes remain. _

And, even as he swims ever deeper, he feels as if he’s merely turning in desperate circles.  _ Had he seen that rock before? It looked awfully familiar.  _ But he shakes it off, brought thoughts of Victoria and Cho to the forefront of his mind, and searched the expanse of his memories for a spell that could help.

Anything that could help.

_ 45 minutes remain. _

He hears a distant  _ chittering  _ of sorts, flinches at it, and eyes the dancing weeds below him with apprehension. He floats a bit higher, just in case. 

His breathless excitement begins to fade, exertion now tugging at his limbs, and he ignores it in favor of floating to an enclave of rocks he spies a bit ahead of him. He is suddenly thankful for the countless hours of quidditch he’s forced his body to endure, as well as the tortuously long training he pushes his team through.

_ Not now, not now,  _ he tells himself, shaking his head and hating the waterlogged feel to his robes. He swims further into the depths, and hopes he finds  _ something  _ soon.

o.O.o

_ When Victoria Dodger - wait, that’s not right - was 10 years old, she learned how to ride a bike. _

_ The night before her birthday, she had snuck into the kitchen in hopes of a late-night snack and had been subsequently spooked by the shadow of  _ something  _ in the corner. Unknowing of what it was at the time, her fear had not been enough to override her hunger and so she had grabbed an apple from the fridge before fleeing to her room, heart pounding. _

_ The next morning, when a rusted and somewhat dinghy bike had been presented to her - and an identical one to her brother - she had been taken outside by her uncle and shown how to properly mount and push off of the ground, how to grip the handlebars with a firm hand, and how to peddle without falling. She remembers thinking that her fear had been well-worth it, and that maybe sometimes not knowing something is okay. _

_ She also remembers the breathless exhilaration that came with riding her bike, with learning  _ how to _ ride it, and how it had taken her several tries before she could make it a few feet without tipping over. Her brother, genius that he was, had learned on his first attempt - which irritated her. _

_ But it was okay. Her uncle caught her every time, laughing merrily at her pouting, and when she could finally ride without falter showed her every nook and cranny their little city held. _

_ Whenever she had the time, not overrun with school-work and friends, she would hop on her bike - now freshly painted in red-red roses, courtesy of her steady-handed mother - and ride for what seemed like miles with him.  _

Her uncle had died a few years after that, from an illness they had never encountered, and she couldn’t bring herself to ride it ever again. She associated the bike with her uncle, and so without him riding it had seemed pointless. 

The bike sat outside, next to her brothers own blue-blue one, and collected dust.

_ She loved that bike. She loved exploring every inch of her city on it, loved being close to her uncle, who was more kid than adult.  _

When she was dying, she had wondered if she would now get to see her uncle again. If she could say sorry for not riding the bike anymore, and tell him how much she loved him, how much he shaped her life.

When she woke up - her heart bitter, her palms cold, the bright-white of hospital walls staring back at her - she had stared at the ceiling, and silently cried. 

_ She wonders where he is now. Why she couldn’t be with him.  _

That was the first and last time she cried in this body, until Cedric Diggory came along.

_ She’s helping with the second task. _

o.O.o

When Cedric Diggory finally finds what he’s looking for, it’s only because he saw the tail-end of Harry Potter’s webbed feet turning a corner of black rocks and high sea-weed. Breath halting in his chest, he had pushed as hard as he could until he, too, was rounding sharp rock.

He’d heard the haunting melody of mersong, paintings of merpeople scattered over rocks, and had kept swimming. He was close, he knew. 

_ He really, really wanted to win. _

There was a...city, there. It was a startling sight, one that had him flinching back in surprise and holding still for a long moment, and he could feel some type of giddy excitement in his chest. It would be natural to assume merpeople lived in the lake, but honestly - who would ever have such a thought?

He watches the merpeople swim about and circle something safely tucked in what he can only assume is the city's center, and wonders what could could be there.

o.O.o

_ Harry Potter hovers before Ron Weasley, jagged stone in hand, and looks worriedly over the other tied hostages. _

_ None of the other champions have made an appearance, and he was worried. What if they didn’t show? What if they were stuck here, at the bottom of the lake, forever? _

_ He looks at Hermione, a girl of eight, and another girl whom he doesn’t recognize. She has long brightly colored hair, and a face that he feels he could forget very easily. _

_ He feels odd, looking at her. _

“Well, she doesn’t like you very much,” Hermione says, biting her lip nervously and clutching a few books to her chest, “she wanted me to tell you that if anything happened to Cedric Diggory during tournament then...well, you’d regret it a lot.”

“Wha- how would anything that happens to him be my fault?” he asks, flabbergasted, and Hermione looks exasperated.

“I- well, I can’t really explain it, but she says that wherever you go,” she pauses here, voice becoming a little quiet, “trouble follows.”

Harry’s mouth curls into a frown and he can’t help a resentful huff, “trust me, I know…”

Hermione looks sorry, and flutters a moment, “I tried to tell her she was wrong, really! That she was being too hard on you and that stuff from before was, well, it wasn’t your fault.”

He sighs, rests his head in his hand, and tries to ignore the small hurt feeling in his chest.

“It’s fine Hermione, really.”

_ He hovers a little closer, scrutinizing her face.  The girl Hermione had told him about, the one she decided to look after.  _

“There’s something about her I can’t explain, when I look at her I just...I want to make sure she’s okay.”

_ He can’t see it. Her skin was dreadfully pale, and there were shadows under her eyes - but other than that, she looks like a perfectly healthy 12 year old. Perhaps a part of him still felt spiteful about her words, but he doesn’t see why Hermione was so worried about her.  _

_ That didn’t mean he’d just let her rot down here though, and he wonders how he could carry everyone up to the surface.  _

_ The merpeople around him start chittering excitedly, and he turns- _

o.O.o

_ Oh,  _ Cedric thinks when he sees Victoria tied tightly to a large statue, bubbles escaping her mouth and looking exceedingly pale in the cold water. 

He turns to Harry, sees the sharp rock in his hand, and mouths that Krum and Fleur were coming. It’s all the attention he can focus on the other boy before he’s turning back to Victoria, looking her over for injuries. He pulls out a knife safely tucked in his robes when he deems her unharmed, and carefully cuts the slimy seaweed keeping her bound away. He pulls her close, a helpless feeling of guilt swelling in his chest, and feels a shudder tremor through his body. 

_ I’m sorry,  _ he thinks, pretending it’s the cold that makes him shudder so, and looks up at the distant light of the sun. He’d pull her to safety, away from the water, and things would be okay. Normal. 

_ “I hate this tournament.” _

He doesn’t spare Harry another glance, and starts pushing for the surface. 

_ “Who cares about the reputation of the school? About who’s best? It’s all so pointless.” _

He huffs against his bubble, Victoria’s small body tucked in his arms. She feels frail - as if he could break her if he isn’t careful enough.

_ “The lives of children shouldn’t be threatened because of the egos of old men.” _

He breaches the surface, Victoria suddenly heaving with gasping breaths, and the loud cheers that greets him makes him feel-

Empty.

o.O.o

_ She’d always prided herself on being a strong woman.  _

_ She fought back, every time. She has that comfort, at least.  _

_ She refused to go quietly. _

o.O.o

When Victoria Dodger opens her eyes after what feels like a lifetime against the current of cold water, she stares up at the sky and silently drowns in her despair. She tastes fresh-water against her lips, feels her hair sticking to her neck wetly, and has a strange sense of drowsiness embedded in her limbs as the currents lap at her greedily. 

She tries not to linger over what this means, and ignores the cheering of the stands to swim with Diggory - who was gripping her arm tightly, knuckles white - to the waving and gesturing teachers. 

She’s hauled out of the water, wrapped in a warm-charmed towel, and handed a mug of steaming  _ something  _ as her mind slowly starts to process the world around her. She feels slow. Waterlogged. 

She and Diggory are both carted off to the nurse - who looks them over attentively, chittering out questions and taking readings from her wand - and brought to some seats to wait out the other champions. She’s not sure who’s left and can’t really bring herself to care. She stares at the ground, exhausted.

_ She is trapped. Bound. The brokenness of her own mind haunts her, dragging her further and further into a dark abyss of echoing laughter and caramel-sweet candy.  _

_ “You are a masterpiece,” _

She carefully doesn’t look to the side, where Diggory’s large and warm form is leaning against her.

She hears a loud meowing, and looks up, startled. Sasha darts to her, soft warm body curling into her lap, and she pets her fur absently. 

She feels disconnected.

“Are you okay?” a voice murmurs into her ear, and she blinks. Granger’s sitting next to her, wrapped in a towel and clutching a mug of her own.

She hadn’t even noticed her.

“I,” she says, voice choked and heavy and thick, and her throat hurts so badly she has to stop. She’s not sure what she would say anyway. 

Granger’s lips thin and she nods her head, hand coming up to wrap around her shoulder. 

Victoria, suddenly exhausted, doesn’t even mind the touch and leans on Granger’s shoulder. 

_ She remembers him. _

_ Oil on canvas, a world not yet made, and she was a masterpiece. _

_ Death.  _

When she falls asleep, into the black-black nothingness, it’s with a name she can no longer remember on the tip of her tongue. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me at dev-fiction.tumblr.com for updates or...to just chat or something! Always down for answering questions.


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